I Have A Knack for Making People Laugh
by WordShark
Summary: Harriet Vince, registered nobody, has a talent for making things worse for herself. Yes this is one of those idiotic Joker/OC/Batman stories, but I intend to have a good time with my Anti-Mary-Sue, so enjoy! I'm so sorry I never finished this! LOVE YOU
1. Book I: The Party

See, I'm ready

Disclaimer: 1) a renunciation of any claim to or connection with; 2) disavowal; 3) a statement made to save one's own ass.

(Disclaimer: I also do not claim to own the definition of Disclaimer. Merriam-Webster and View Askew own it. Clever bastards.)

Look, I know I know I know. I know that this seems like yet another idiotic Joker/OC/Batman triangle. And–– you're right! It is! Good for you! But I intend to have fun with my Anti-Mary-Sue, and I hope you enjoy the ride!

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See, I'm ready. Watch me, world; I'm the guttersnipe in the ballroom gown who, with her infinite grace and charm, will enchant the bodacious billionaires and beauties of Gotham City with one elegant walk down the marble stairs of Bruce Wayne's penthouse apartment. Look aloof, look aloof and distant, think of Eliza Doolittle from Pygmalion, who with nothing but annunciation and a full facial convinced the royalty of Europe that she was a long-lost princess. Of course, she had Leslie Howard by her side and knew the waltz, but I'm sure that with my head held high, I can survive one trip down a staircase and become the epitome of elegance.

Unless, of course, I actually trip.

Tumbling head over three-inch heels in a ridiculous dress that I suspect was made in the 1800s, all thoughts of elegance disappear from my mind, to be replaced with my one desperate prayer that nobody in this outrageous, gorgeous room saw my downfall.

Predictably, everyone is watching. More than a few are laughing. It's really a shame I'm not religious.

"Ma'am, oh dear–– Ma'am, are you alright?" An English gentleman, eyes kind and concerned, has teleported to my side.

I stand up hurriedly, swaying a little and refusing to look at him. "Oh, mister, I think you've got the wrong person," I say gruffly, "there aren't any ma'ams here, definitely none that fell down a flight of stairs, ha ha ha!" He smiles at me, but I plow on, babbling as usual and turning completely red. "I think she headed off, uh, that way." Waving in every direction. "But I couldn't be sure with all these people." Nodding firmly, "Right, well, I'm going to devour the buffet table out of mortification now–– I mean, you know, empathetic mortification." Tottering off, absolutely ashamed of myself. Epitome of elegance my ass.

Alone now, watching the socialites, debutantes, and fat lechers (they don't get a pretty name) hobnob and chitter. I am in the abyss. I have looked into it, it has done likewise me, and there I am. With strawberries. I inch the strawberry bowl closer to me, stopping every few moments to smile graciously at another member of the gliding species of alien defined as "model." Finally, another big name arrives in a very large 'copter and the entire room turns around to watch him (deep voice, assume it's a man) congratulate the new DA. Who I'm supposed to be taking pictures of. In fact, I ought to be documented all of the proceedings. But honestly, after my initial horror, all I'm proud of is my ability to sit on the buffet table holding the bowl in my lap and shoveling berries into my mouth. I've really hit an all-time low.

"Hello." I jolt and look up, mouth crammed with fruit. It's an incredibly handsome, clean-cut man–– the host and the rage of the town (literally, in some circles), Mr. Bruce Wayne. I turn as red as the berries. "Who are you?" he continues, as if it's perfectly commonplace to find twenty-two-year-olds hogging the strawberry bowl in his penthouse. Glancing around at the company, I wonder if I'm not far off the mark. I swallow.

"Someone who is supposed to be here, I assure you." I blush again. "I mean, not here, sitting on your buffet table like a moronic centerpiece, but here. This party." He laughs, and turns around to sit, to my shock, on the table. In a state of awe, I hold out the strawberry bowl, knowing that I look for all the world like a chimp that's discovered Jane Goodwin. He grins again, looking completely at ease, and takes a handful. I see good humor glow in his eyes.

"So," he says kindly, "what do you do? That is, when you aren't going to fundraisers." I look at him incredulously.

"Yeah," I say derisively, "I'm the type who has enough fortune and lack of ambition to just laze about and flirt out of boredom. No sir, such decadence is below me." I nod firmly. "Or, rather, around me, you can choose your favorite preposition. No offense meant, of course," I add hastily. He smiles again, a big stripe of white in pale skin, and again, his suppressed laughter explodes in his eyes.

"None taken. But it seems a little hypocritical of you to criticize self-indulgence when your own dress seems to be excess made into clothing." Let me mention now that this dress is about the size of a small elephant and looks like a wedding gown, complete with twenty thousands petticoats plus lace. It is a mess of black and white spirals and other nonsense. I scowl pointedly and shove another handful of berries into my mouth.

"One: I was–– misinformed by my colleges, who have a high opinion of their acts of jollity. They told me that you had an eccentric side to you, fuelled by money and public indulgence." Mr. Wayne seems to flinch, and I turn a little more towards him, still speaking through my mouthful. "So." I gulp. "They said… that this was going to be a masquerade." The man sitting next to me begins to grin again, but I only scowl more deeply. "And so, the horrid dress, the idiotic shoes, the, uh, mask, which you'll find in the trash can outside, and the delusional idea that I could transform myself into the beggar turned princess. Ha ha ha."

I roll my eyes and point to the diminutive Englishman, who, I now realize, was serving drinks. "You can ask him for an eyewitness account, but I assure you, I most definitely fell down every single one of those stairs." I shrug. "You know what they say about pride coming before the fall!" This is too much for Mr. Wayne, who bursts out laughing. I manage a small chuckle on his behalf, and finish, saying, "Which is why I'm sitting here instead of doing my job."

"Which is?"

I wave my black pretty camera with its enormous flashbulb in his face. "I'm just happy it didn't get broken. Though, at this rate, I'm more likely to find a mirror and begin creating my own blackmail than actually working." Wayne smiles again, and now I notice the crinkles around his eyes, the long black lashes surrounding the beautiful dark blue of his iris. Three minutes later, I realize that I'm staring, start, and succumb to full-body blush for the sixth time tonight (yes, I count them).

"Oh, damn, sorry about the whole, um, staring thi–– what I mean is that–– I mean, its my job to stare, 'cept its usually through my camera lenses. Which isn't to make you think I'm some sort of creep. I'm not. I'm the retard that everyone knows–– cause everyone knows one, right? Yeah, I tend to, er, babble when I get–– nervous, I mean, its not like I do it all the time, but every time I do it its just–– whatever I'm thinking comes out of my mouth, and its usually bad for my job. Which is probably why I've never been invited to these events before." I gulp, and, seeing that he's still smiling at me, rush on. "Please don't get me fired." God, I seem to have a knack at making people laugh tonight.

"No, I don't think I will. I think you're too good of company–– I usually don't meet someone so humble at these 'social' events. And I mean that as a complement to your honesty." Bruce Wayne, saying this, offers his hand to shake. And I, awestruck, not to mention idiotic as usual, let the strawberries fall to the floor. The bowl shatters and the fruit explodes, splattering my dress with bright red juices.

The sound breaks through the quiet hum of polite conversation, and I, who have just reached over to grasp a billionaire's hand, am now standing horrorstruck at the new mess I have created. Wayne's mouth twitches again, and I swear that right now I am not in the mood to be laughed at. Now, if there were anything deeper than an abyss, I'd throw myself into it. I'd consider sinking into the ground if it weren't ten stories below me.

And, I find, looking around, that Bruce Wayne has taken the alternative method of disappearance and has vanished into thin air. Which is a bit of a bastardly thing to do, never mind that I broke his beautiful glass bowl. I sink to the marble floor in a vain attempt to clean everything when I hear a loud BANG! Then, a high-pitched, twisted spiraling voice comes circling though the suddenly silent hall.

"Good evening ladies and gen-tle-_men._"

Still shocked silence. I rise slowly and, slipping off my stupid high-heels and stepping as carefully as I can over the broken glass, begin making my way through the crowd. There's one strawberry still mostly intact, and I slip it in my one (concealed) pocket as the voice continues. "We are to-night's entertainment!" I'm near the very front of the masses, but I keep my camera as carefully hidden as possible, and myself from hyperventilating.

There is a clown stalking around the crowd.

There are clown thugs in the middle of the room.

I have serious clown phobia.

I begin having what is commonly known in most of the English-speaking world as a "panic attack."

The freak's rounding the crowd, he's going for the finish line and he's–– stopped in front of me. "Whyyyy hello _gorgeous!_" His mouth, if you can call it that, has been carved open into a Cheshire smile. Even when he's stopped talking, the giant rictus grin never seems to close. His eyes are deep kohl-infused tunnels, and no matter which one you take, you know that whatever light was at the end has shorted out forever. The trembling vats of adipose in front of me melt away like foam on a beach and I'm left standing in my ridiculous, red-stained oversized dress feeling very unwell. Because I know–– like Bruce Wayne (unfortunately) knows–– that if I talk to this circus crazy now, whatever's at the top of my head will come out of my mouth. And I feel like this is the sort of clown who appreciates his own jokes more than others'.

He stops. He stares at my dress. I stare at him. Green hair? Really? But I manage to keep my big fat mouth shut. He doesn't. He laughs, a horrible, terrifying demented laugh that makes me want to break down and cry.

"Wellll, girly, from one class of criminal to another, I'd like to point out"–– pointing at my dress––"that––ah, after a crime of–– _he_ _he_ ho ha _he_ he _passion_, it's best to clean up after oneself." I look down. My dress is splattered with the remains of my strawberries, looking very much like I just waded through a pool of blood. I refuse to comment, clutching at my skirt. The man in the make-up and the pimp suit saunters forward. "Don't _wor-_ry daaaaahling, you won't be in the big house for _long_–– you're too––ah– irre_sis_tible." He cackles again, tongue darting over his painted lips, moving closer and closer, until I can't stand it anymore.

"Actually, you don't have to worry either." I gulp. He has stopped very near to me and I can feel body heat and menace radiating off of him in waves. "This, um, costume was actually for my performance to tonight as, um, Lucia di Lammermoor. You know, the mad scene, after she's killed her husband. It's okay, though, this entertainment will certainly um, suffice. I mean, I don't even know much opera anyway. Much much better with comedic routines–– I mean, not to imply rivalry or anything, but I find that everyone is laughing at me tonight."

A bit of an eerie silence, then a small, insidious chuckle. The fiend is still grinning wildly and looks like he's about to crack up again, and he's looking at me with a disturbing hunger in his eyes. His proximity is killing me, I can feel myself twitching, and I start edging out of the crowd, keeping his eyes on my face the entire time. I figure that as long as he isn't paying attention to the others, maybe I'll be able to delay our dooms, or provide distraction until someone comes to save us. In the corner of my eye, I swear I see a shadow move, silently, from pillar to pillar. I press on, ignoring the monster's lecherous gaze.

"Actually, mister, I really hate clowns." Oh Lord, I've done it now. "Clowns freak me the fuck out. The only reason I'm not running around having an A-bomb mushroom cloud panic attack is because I figure that I'll be more of a danger to people as a moving target." The creature in the makeup begins making enormous puppy dog eyes.

"Don't you like me, Lucy?" Lucy–– Lucia––? Oh, nice one, asshat. "I'm here to make people _laugh_––ah, _Lucia_, I'm here to make them smile. Do you want to know––" and suddenly he's close, very close to my face, with a harpy in one hand ––"how I got these scars?"

He grabs my cheeks, sticking his knife into my mouth, and suddenly everything is clear and sharp as shattered glass–– the metallic taste on my tongue, the smell of his face pain, his low, raspy voice muttering about his drunken girlfriend–– and I know who he is. The Joker. Of course, of course. Coming to help Mr. Dent with his fundraiser, perhaps? This is no time for babbling and panicking; we're all in terrible danger. I finally act, twisting and pulling my head away from the knife, bringing my enormous flash bulb from behind my back and screaming "Cheese!" as I flash his eyesight into temporary oblivion.

Taking this moment of blindness to beat him repeatedly over the head with my camera, I give a war cry that quickly turns into cry of "Oh fuck!" as the other thugs start rushing me. Dammit, savior in hiding, you really don't take a hint, do you? I'm in some serious trouble, you bastard! I manage to take several thugs out by bashing them over the head with centerpieces, when I hear yelling. The Joker has his harpy at Rachel Dawes', Dent's girlfriend, throat. The Joker stares at me with malevolent humor, mouth split wide open in the usual terrifying grin.

"Oooooh, oooh boys, I _like_ her...he he ha aha ha why don' we make the proper intro_ductions_? I'm the Joker–– the helpful man with the friendly smile. And you are–––?" I begin to shake as I feel his cronies approach from behind. I should know better than to play hero, I'm only 4' 11" and three-fourths and every time I interfere, things go from bad to worse. I choke a little on my words, refusing to acknowledge the thugs behind me.

"Who me? I'm just the retarded kid who sat at the back of the bus and made bus noises. I don't even know how the stupid thing works!" I laugh a little wildly, spin around to punch funnyman one in the gut, and end up getting whacked over the head. So much for preserving Harvey Dent's little party, not to mention his life. As my vision spirals into darkness, I hear an exchange that makes my heart jump into my mouth.

"A little fight in you! _I like that._"

"Then you're going to love me."


	2. The Accidental Hero

I wake in the police department, head bandaged and ringing like a fire alarm

I wake in the police department, head bandaged and ringing like a fire alarm. Blue-suited people rush by me, around me, and I feel so much like a ghost that I wouldn't be surprised if one of them walked right through me. I could wave them over, but I feel that the bash in my head would protest violently. I sigh, and instantly regret it–– the sudden intake of breath causes my head to whirl and my vision distorts like a warped, static-filled video. Recalling what brought me to this pathetic state, I begin seriously considering whether my common sense has finally down tools. I was never a particularly brave person, and prattling away to a well-armed troupe of psychotic (shudder) _clowns_ to buy time for a savior who was more than likely hallucinatory bespoke of a determinedly self-destructive pathology.

Then I notice.

Water. Right there. One _damnable_ foot away from my toes.

This is what is known as the good cop bad cop routine, right? As in, I think, pushing myself up and trying not to black out again, the good cop suggests the water and the demonic fucker cop puts it by my feet. With one desperate movement, I swipe at the glass––– and it falls to the ground, emitting a morose tinkle. Succumbing to weariness and pain, I begin to follow it in a slow motion nosedive.

"Oh––! Miss Vince, are you okay?" Someone has caught me in an embrace, and his anxious voice breathes warm air onto my back. Suddenly, I feel like I can relax, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Whoever it is has a large mustache that moves like a duster over my neck, and I giggle inwardly. It's like I'm back home, wrapped in my father's protective arms–– heat radiating from flesh and bone to surround me, keep me safe. Lying back down, I smile genuinely at the man who rescued me from the cold floor, and happily recognize Lieutenant Gordon, the kind-faced cop from the news reports.

"Thank you Lieutenant. I'm sorry to have caused you any more trouble." Blushing at the spillage spreading on the linoleum, I wish that I could have just a little more poise. At least I wouldn't feel like such a little child all the time.

"Trouble? Miss Vince, you are _anything_ but trouble! You," he says, beaming like an uncle talking to a precocious niece, "are a hero!" My jaw drops. There is a long silence.

"Wait, what?" I start laughing. "I'm a hero because I spouted nonsense at a gang of," I give a slight shudder, "_clowns_ and then threw a few plates of hors d'oeuvres like a deranged toddler? While," I continue, slowly becoming infuriated, "everyone else stood around like voyeuristic statues and waited to see me get shot? And now people are putting water by my toes, which is cruel and unusual when they can see that I'm in pain, and that my mouth is _clearly_ up _here._" Poor Gordon looks so bewildered. I guess everyone is a little surprised when I become angry. I suppose I don't seem like the type. Seeing the look on his face, I feel my temper recede instantly. "I'm sorry, I'm a little confused and angry right now. I appreciate the hero thing, really, but I don't feel like one."

He hesitates, then, places a hand on my shoulder, large, calloused, comforting. "The point is that you _did_ something, and, even if it was an accident, it very probably saved those people. And you weren't alone–– just as you were knocked out, Batman came to the rescue." So that was the gravelly voice that I heard answering the Joker's rusty growl. All the more power to the man-bat, I thought, if he was going to be around to save my scrawny ass from villains like that creep. "He's the one who brought you to the hospital, and he would have stayed with you, if––" Gordon breaks off, looking a little abashed.

I nod firmly. "I understand. Do you… know him?"

"As well as one could in my position." Again, that soft apologetic smile. I feel like I've received enough smiles in the last two days to fill a lifetime.

I return the kindness, again thinking about my father and his modesty, his knack for finding small details about people–– the little things that made them endearing, decent. I'm filled with affection for the policeman in front of me, with his weary expression and mournful eyes, his droopy mustache. I notice that he sits hunched, curled inward as if every day fighting has settled on his shoulders, the scum and ash of Gotham piling upon him, the overwhelming pressure compacting it into one great weight. He's being crushed under its sins, I realize, and with sudden compassion reach forward to press the hands he holds clenched in front of him. We sit in silence for a minute.

"If you see Batman again, Lieutenant, tell him how thankful I am. Please. I doubt I'll be seeing him again." I laugh, hoping against likelihood. "I'll probably be fired from my job tomorrow for being a danger to myself and my coworkers. Besides, everyone there thinks I'm borderline deranged anyway." Gordon suddenly frowns, shaking his head.

"You'll probably be thanking him yourself–– for two reasons. One, your paper is thrilled by your up-close and personal picture of the Joker and your daring encounter is the sort of thing that they would love to serialize. You'll probably be asked to seek out the Batman, and besides, your–– accidental heroics are good press. You'll be more of a celebrity than a journalist. And two. Two––" He pauses. I wait, uneasiness growing on me like the ivy climbing the walls of my decrepit home. Gordon looks me in the eye. "Two, we're worried for you. Whether you want to be, you are now officially on the Joker's radar. I afraid he's a little amused by you." I roll my eyes.

"Isn't everyone?" I say, sarcasm slithering off my tongue. Two seconds later, though, I feel guilty, blushing deeply as I look into Gordon's reproachful eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to believe that anyone would have any interest in me beyond a sort of detached 'Oh yeah.' I'm just some girl, you know?" Gordon shakes his head.

"Not anymore. Now you're a journalist at the Gotham Times who mingled with the best and brightest in the city–––" I snort. Mingling, ha. "––and showed her true colors to the most deranged, dangerous criminal on the streets. You are to be protected at all times. We'll make sure of it. We don't want someone as brave as you to disappear, when there are so few willing to be courageous." He stands, beaming again and offering his hand to shake. "I'm very glad to have found you, Harriet Vince."

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Now, of course, I'm _much_ more optimistic. Upbeat. I'm not only in a great deal of pain, but I'm under the horrible, watchful eyes of both a madman and a vigilante. It's the stuff dreams are made of. Nightmarish dreams of deranged grinning stalkers with gravelly voices and bat ears. Did I mention that stalkers are another one of my choice phobias? I'm beginning to realize that I'm scared of a lot of things, which is not good for a girl in my situation. And what about my situation has thrown my fears in such sharp relief? Is my mind trying to instill a sense of self-preservation in me by constantly heightening my anxiety? Why is there gum on my elbow? What are those shoes doing hanging by their laces from the telephone wire? Why, of all the journalists in the city, in that room, in that general _area_, did he have to spot me? I'm not brave. I'm just an idiot who managed to delay the inevitable by shooting her mouth off to someone who I'm sure doesn't forget wiseass wimps in ballroom gowns.

This is absurd.

I trudge home, feeling the concrete through my thin soles. I figure that I could walk home blindfolded and be able to know which street I was on. I know every crack and fissure in the sidewalk by now, every nasty smell, every catcall and hobo's drunken voice, having marched myself back and forth through Gotham for four years in the same smelly shoes. I grin to myself, remembering that my landlady wants them thrown out because of the smell. More than once, she has come to collect the rent and told me that it smells "like ass" in my room. But I'm not chucking 'em–– they're lucky, I'm sure of it: I've never been mugged wearing them, and even though they're falling apart, I hardly ever act like a klutz in them.

Well, I admit, that's a bit of an exaggeration as I slip on a large puddle of god-knows-what and falling prone into Mr. Rizzo's outdoor tomato display. My head explodes with pain all over again and I can barely shift without tasting bile in my mouth. The market erupts into general turmoil and a bevy of screaming women turn me over, screeching wildly that I've been shot in the back–– "It was a sniper, a sniper!" –– only to begin wailing and moaning about the "blood" soaking through my shirt. Tomato juice, naturally. Produce and I seem to be engaged in bloody (ha ha) war, and, to my horror, my brute strength is no match against its impeccable timing.

"Is she okay, what's going on? Miss? Miss!" Oh great. It's Bruce Wayne, lured from his limousine by the cries of terror. I close my eyes in utter mortification as he comes near, imagining his expression as he finds me, the klutzy blabbermouth, yet again covered in fruit juice and turning as red as my clothing. Panicking, I play it off as well as I can. Turning on my side, I begin to snore loudly. I can barely hear it over the chaos around me, but I swear he chuckles. "It's okay, madam, it's just a drunk who passed out in your shop." I snore even more obnoxiously, cuddling a large cabbage like a stuffed animal. I can hear the badly suppressed laughter in his voice now. "I'll take her off your hands, shall I? Seems a shame to leave something this pretty…sleeping around." I turn bright red again, a shade that becomes deeper and darker as I feel his strong arms scoop me up from the wreckage that was an outdoor market. "Don't worry about the shop, I'll pay whatever you need to fix this place up. And madam, if you don't mind terribly, could you keep this incident as much of a secret as possible? I'll make it worth your while." I hear the women's whispering and murmuring fade away as the billionaire playboy hoists me over his shoulder and carries me in a fireman's lift to his limo.

This is surreal.

I find myself deposited beside the kind old Englishman from the night before, and before I can offer a word of remorse or apology, find a large dark concoction thrust into my hand. "Complements of Mr. Jeeves," he says, grinning widely. "Good for people after a long night of partying." I take a draft and suddenly feel as if I'm suffering a fit of epilepsy. After shaking myself out a bit, I realize that I feel ten times more refreshed and relaxed. I smile my thanks, still blushing furiously, and the gentleman smiles, holding out his hand.

"I," he says, "am Alfred, Mr. Wayne's butler and sole heir. This Charlie, our driver, Mr. Wayne, our resident playboy wonder, and you––"

"–– Are Harriet Vince, Gotham City's new enigma." Mr. Wayne has finished his sentence just as he snaps his seat belt into place. He twists around from the front seat to smile at me. "Most enigmatic is her apparent determination to stain every piece of clothing she owns crimson. Is this some strange psychological quirk we're witnessing, Miss Vince?" He pretends to shove a microphone in my face, and I roll my eyes, suppressing my giggles.

"Oh yes," I say solemnly, "I'm just coming to realize my own pathologies–– in fact, I'm beginning to call these, um, incidents _Freudian_ slips." Alfred chuckles and Wayne and I grin at each other. "But I'm afraid I'm running out of dye. I mean, there aren't many species of fruit that can make you look like you've been seeped in blood."

"And not many outdoor marts that can supply them!" Starting horribly, I gibber my many stuttered apologies, only to find a large hand covering my mouth. I feel like I'm having an attack of apoplexy–– I know I look like it. "Not another word." Wayne's deep voice is gentle, sweet even. "After what you did last night, there is no way I'll ever be able to repay you." Again with the plaudits for a job blown far out of proportion. I sigh, removing Wayne's hand from my mouth. I shake my head, nettled that no one sees the pure cowardice that was the fountainhead of my heroism. Alfred smiles at my annoyance, and to my relief, briefly shakes his head at Wayne. He knows that this is not the time. Wayne sighs as well, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You are too modest. But enough of this–– are you hungry? I feel like I owe you something for that truly terrible night out." He flashes that winning smile again, and beyond the fog that seems to have encroached upon my vision, I see that we've stopped in front of my apartment.

Alfred opens my door and as I step out, mouth still hanging open, Wayne rolls down his window and smiles at me. "We'll be back in fifteen minutes. You don't have to dress up or anything, but if you really want to, I hear that hoop skirts are very much in fashion nowadays." And, still smiling at my dumbfounded face, he rolls up the window and pulls away.

This is––

A card.

A card is tucked inside my coat pocket, next to my keys.

It's a joker.


	3. The Drainpipe Shimmy

Panicking now.

I have hit the panic button as hard as I can and the adrenaline is pounding through my scrawny self and the bells of every desecrated church tower are ring ring ringing in my shattered atheist mind.

Lord, why hath I forsaken thee?

I stare at the card in my tiny, trembling hand, and notice that it has variations of "ha" scrawled on it in a sickeningly familiar shade of red. Gordon was right about me no longer being "just some girl." Now I'm "just some girl being pursued by a homicidal transvestite clown." I whip around to search the shadows behind me, around me, and realize–– I can't stay here. It'll be bad for my health.

I run through the door to the elevator, hit the button, and then realize that that's probably a terrible idea if anybody's waiting in my hall to see if I've come back. And I decide against the main staircase because the sound of my shoes and belabored breathing up seven flights of stairs will also probably be a giveaway. Shit, and if the creep's as clever as they say, then he'll probably have people stationed on the fire-escape stairs as well. And even if that's not true, I'm sure he knows how I react to stress and will end up catching me right here, hyperventilating in the hallway. I'm being fucking trapped by my own imagination! The elevator arrives, and in a stroke of brilliance, I jump inside, press my number, and dodge out before the doors close. I stand there, pleased for a minute, before I realize that I still don't know how to get to my room.

Then I remember the drainpipe in the alleyway. Taking off my shoes, I silently sprint back outside and around the corner. I catch my breath, staring up the wall.

It's a pretty long climb, and the pipe is rusty and treacherous. But I remind myself that compared to the treachery of mankind, that thing is as solid as a rock, and, putting my shoes back on, begin to scramble up my lifeline. It creaks ominously, and I realize that smashing one's head open in an alley during a pipe climbing accident is not really a dignified way to go. Keeping this mortifying image in mind, I scurry faster up the smooth metal, scrabbling to catch onto the wall when I feel myself sliding. I feel my hands being cut open and scraped by the rough stone and brick and hope desperately that this doesn't make my climb even more slippery. Oh Jesus Christ, why is it so much harder to be a coward than a hero?

Seventh floor. Don't look down.

I'm in the room three windows to the left. I clench my teeth together and squeeze my eyes together and extend my leg out as far as it can go, until I feel it make contact with the ledge directly beneath the window. Breathing deeply, I watch my bleeding hand slide along the wall until it is positioned directly over my foot. Taking a firm hold on the brick, I shift my weight and pull my other half onto the ledge and its parallel, and realize that I am not yet dead. I'm almost there now, but I can hear the sounds of the world far below me, and I fear that I don't have much more strength left to cling to the wall face. Now is not the time to be a klutz.

Six minutes of fear and vertigo later, and I'm staring into my room with wide eyes. There is no one there. There are no obvious disturbances to its arrangement or any mysterious additions to its appearance. It looks just as I left it. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe the playing card is a sick joke by Mr. Wayne at my expense–– he's not really known for anything except frivolity. Maybe–– oh fuck. I have dinner plans to keep.

I smash open my window with my fist, knowing that the apartment complex's alarm system has been broken and left unfixed for an irresponsible amount of time–– another convincing reason to evacuate the premises. My mind is made sharp and clear by the danger, the adrenaline, the booming of my drum-like heart, and I realize that the relief that should accompany being home has permanently left this dwelling place. I'm afraid to know why.

I run through my abode, grabbing my suitcase and throwing everything I consider necessary into it. Clothing, minimal. Typewriter, camera, notebook, hairbrush, extra shoes–– I run into the bathroom and begin collecting my cosmetics when a glance at the mirror makes me scream in sheer terror.

Words are written across the surface. Words in dripping, smearing red.

Why so serious?

Furious and scared shitless, I hurl my soap dispenser at the glass and smash it as hard as I can. Seven years bad luck would be nothing compared to what I'm facing right now. And with that outburst, I'm suddenly calm. I've experienced my catharsis. I wander back into the bedroom and sit down, feeling nullified and voided by my intense fear. Of course the Joker won't strike yet, not with the police and Batman watching my every move. I'm being frightened into doing something stupid–– like running from my apartment with a nominal amount of money and clothing into the streets of Gotham. I sigh, realizing that I was close to making the biggest mistake of my life.

On the other hand…

He knows where I live. He knows how to get in to my bedroom. Laughing (as if) it off is not an option, because the bastard clearly has me trapped between a rock and a hard place. I can't stay here tonight–– and I _wasn't_ going to be here. Bruce Wayne, billionaire almighty, had invited me to dinner. Who knew where I lived. Who knew my name. And who had just obliquely rescued me from an abduction plot I should have realized was coming.

Coinkidink? I think not.

It seems that a third party is looking out for me.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"Wow, Mr. Wayne, you shouldn't have." I am back in my four-inch heels, wobbling on the arm of the richest and most poised man in Gotham in the city's richest restaurant. I'm from Jersey for God's sake, we don't get lobster on the menu in the Midwest. I'm so excited, I can barely keep myself from throwing off my shoes and dancing on the tables. Not to mention that I haven't eaten anything, except maybe an accidental mouthful of tomato. My stomach's rumbling negates my attempts at humility, and I glance at Wayne in blushing embarrassment. He grins at my expression.

"Please," he says, smiling as he recognizes the cliché, "call me Bruce." I snigger, and grin back at him.

"And you, sirrah, may call me Harriet. Or Harry. My parents weren't discriminating." _Bruce_ bursts out laughing, and, still chortling, brings me to a small table. I haven't told him about the break-in at my apartment yet, but I realize I must when I ask if I can take up residence in his dumbwaiter. Besides, I have the feeling that he already knows what I'm going to ask, which is unsurprising, considering that I brought my suitcase with me.

"Bruce!" I my smile widens as I see Gordon approach, closely followed by Harvey Dent, the heralded new DA. Both of them look overjoyed to see us, but their expressions are tinged with anxiety. "Miss Vince, I cannot express how happy I am to see that you are safe. I am afraid, however," Gordon continues gravely, "that I cannot say the same for your apartment. It has been utterly destroyed, Miss Vince, vandalized and disrupted. We were afraid for a while that you might already have been abducted, but a homeless fellow told us that he had seen a woman of your description climb into a limo and head in this direction. It is a happy thing that you managed to get to her before he did, Bruce, because I tell you now, not one object in that room was left unmolested."

"He wasn't happy at all," Dent continues, drawing up a chair besides me. "He killed the people who were supposed to be watching for you. Apparently, they only heard your footsteps in the lobby once, and when they saw the elevator go upstairs, they believed you were trapped in your room, I don't know, frozen with fear." I glance around at the three of them, and see that their faces are thoughtful, confused even. Dent speaks again. "How did you manage to get around them?"

"I found the card in my pocket too early, I think–– it was placed next to the keys for my room. They wouldn't know that because I lose them so much, I check to see if I have the damn things _before_ I enter the building." The others chuckle, and I shrug. "I guess it was just dumb luck, really."

I tell them the rest of my story, and watch their eyes widen as I hold up my scratched and battered hands. Bruce does not interrupt me, but silently signals the nearest waiter and requests a bowl of warm water and extra napkins, which makes me glow. After I finish, the three most important men in the city sit dumbfounded as I clean my wounds in the water brought to our table. I shrug guilty, interpreting their silence as disapproval. "I know I'm a coward. I've been trying to tell you guys––I'm no hero!" I feel self-loathing rise within me like nausea, and I grow hot and flushed, trying not to cry. Why should I react to their resentment so fiercely? I hadn't done anything to merit their high expectations, but their regard for me throws my ingratitude and cowardice into sharp relief. Choking back self-hatred, I clench my hands and try to laugh. "I have a highly-developed sense of self-preservation, sirs, not to mention dinner plans to fulfill."

To my relief, they laugh with me, and Bruce gently begins wrapping my hands in spare napkins, saying as he does, "We aren't angry with you. If anything, we're relieved that you're safe, and impressed at your quick thinking. Right, gentlemen?" Gordon nods fervently, smiling at my astonishment.

"But–– but I ran away! I did the exact opposite as a hero–– as someone like Batman would have done!" Dent laughs and tells the newly arrived waiter our preferences, and turning back to me, shakes his head.

"You forget that Batman is a Sasquatch compared to you, and far more capable of taking out six fully armed hooligans." I inwardly snigger. Hooligans? Was our DA raised in an old folks home? He continues. "Really, this proves even more that he was threatened by your outspokenness." I consider that, and shake my head.

"No, I don't think that's it. A little girl who panicked and attacked him with a camera and a plate of appetizers wouldn't threaten him." I frown. "What exactly did you tell the reporters when they arrived?" The others glance guiltily at each other. I'm a little worried about this­­–– I never got to read the newspaper today, seeing as I was knocked out during its greater portion. Bruce looks to Dent, who clears his throat apologetically.

"We, uh, told them that you had acted with great courage. Great audacity. Stood up for the people held frozen by fear. That you are, uh, a symbol of Gotham's awakening bravery and a role model for the civilians, who, unmasked, can fight against crime and evil in their own areas." I curse inwardly and several colorful remarks bounce around in my skull. Of course I don't threaten the Joker at _all_–– he's _diverted_ by me. He's amused by their desperate faith in me. I'm just another pawn in a very dangerous game, someone to be built up, lionized, and martyred. Or, in his eyes, another death used to wound Gotham's already weakened morale. He seems like the sort of person who'd kick a man while he's down.

I tell them what I think, and watch their faces fall. They really thought, just for a second, that one little journalist had gotten under the Joker's skin. I sigh, pitying them. "Sirs, I think you depend too much upon me and my so-called audacity. I'm not one of your heroes, your protagonists. I'm at best secondary character who got thrown into an awful mess, but most realistically an extra who missed her cue to shut the fuck up." I smile at them sadly, realizing how much I want to matter to these people, but how dangerous that would be for everyone involved. I can't be their icon. It'll just hurt ten times worse when I fail to uphold their expectations, and will probably do ten times as much damage. "Please, if you have any common sense, take me out of the limelight. Forget me. I'll do your muckraking, your sideline cheering, and I'll be as brave as I can–– while doing my job. But don't fool yourselves into thinking that I'm something I'm not. I won't be used to hurt you that way." I can feel tears well up in my eyes now. They're hot and full of bitter self-recrimination.

Bruce squeezes my hands as softly as he can, and Gordon murmurs, "We need to believe in someone, Harriet. You might not consider yourself ideal, but neither do we." I look up at him, lips trembling. "We're all just people–– extras–– who ignored our cues. We made one decision, and whether it was accidental or not, we've been given the hopes of thousands of innocent people. No matter how unprepared and vulnerable we feel, we have to remember that we're the only ones keeping them from despair. We never feel brave enough, tough enough–– I don't even think Batman is without those insecurities, and he has ways of avoiding their reality. And," he continues, smiling, "we're not asking you to become a superhero. We're asking you to do your job, which I hear you do very well."

"Well, yeah," I say sarcastically, flicking away a few escapee tears, "it's a lot easier to be brave on paper–– if people don't agree with the newspaper, they'll throw it, and not you, into the incinerator." The others chuckle as the food is delivered to our table, and I instantly dig into my lobster, feeling drained by my second catharsis of the day. Intense pity, how you hollow me. "Just, um, don't glorify me. It isn't suitable, and will only make a big target on the heart of Gotham. I'll be a celebrity _journalist_. They get to show up _after_ the dirty deed and make their scathing remarks." Again, they all laugh at me and my silliness. Silly me, protecting my silly self with my silly typewriter and camera. I'm just happy they haven't made any protests.

"So, Miss Vince," Dent says, "what do you do in your spare time?" Flashing a big white-toothed grin. I blush deep red and begin my trademark blithering.

"Oh, well, on my nights off I like to dress in black spandex and run around the city fighting crime."

There's a long silence.

I nonchalantly take a bite of crab, and continue, "That, or watch late-night romantic comedies on AMC."

Bruce suddenly snickers and the table bursts out laughing. I roll my eyes and pour myself some wine, unable to stop giggling. "I mean, I know I don't seem like the _type––_" That induces another bout of hooting, and I find myself cackling into my wineglass as Dent pounds on the table. Nothing like death to make everything in life seem funnier. The other restaurant goers are looking around at our hysterics with slight concern, which becomes more pronounced when I start waving my hands in front of me like paddles. Of course, the guys notice this and laugh even harder.

"Wha—what the––_hell_ was _that?_" Bruce snorts, chortling. "You looked like some sort of–– of––idiot seal!" My cackles redouble at that, tears are running from my eyes, and I see Gordon slips sideways in his chair, doubled over and wheezing through his mustache. I _love_ laughing like this.


	4. The Newspaper

Gordon, Dent, Bruce and I step outside the restaurant, still laughing. In fact, the only reason we weren't kicked out in the first place was the fact that Bruce owns the place. Ah, the perks of befriending a billionaire. Tripping slightly on a crack in the sidewalk, I stumble into his arms, still feeling as though I'm asphyxiating. We hold onto each other for a few seconds, and, sensing the warmth and strength lying just below his shirt, I reflect that there are many perks to this friendship. And instantly flush for thinking it.

We take a few minutes to calm down, taking deep breaths of the noxious Gotham air. In the silence, I look up and gasp, pointing at the sky. "Look, stars!" Bruce and Gordon follow my finger and we all crane our heads upwards like children, mouths hanging open at the rare sight. It's magical what a few twinkling sparks billions of light years away can do to a person, I think, and wish that everyone were looking up at this moment. Dent chuckles.

"Stars? At _night?_ Impossible!" he says sarcastically, and the enchantment is dispelled. We all laugh a little more, recollecting who we are, where we do and do not live. Acting on my instinct to get out of the cold, I walk towards the limo, only to be restrained by Gordon's hand on my shoulder.

"Hey–– where are you going?" My mouth falls open again. Oh, right. I don't _have_ an apartment anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed by my idiocy, and give an exaggerated shrug. They laugh softly, but I can see the concern in their eyes, and in the looks they exchange. I wave my hand in front of my face, smiling.

"It's no big deal, really, I'll find a Ramada or something." Dent snorts, and Bruce shakes his head.

"How long have you been living in Gotham?" Gordon says.

"Four years."

"And you still haven't figured out that motels are the first places these people check?" I turn deep red again.

"Well, its not like I'd sign with my own name! I'm not _that_ stupid–– and besides, if it's the first thing they check, then won't they have moved on by now? Maybe?" God, I must sound so naïve. I smile tentatively into their sardonic faces.

"Without leaving a lookout? Not likely." Dent looks at me closely. "I thought you cared about your safety." The blush has spread throughout my body now, and I wouldn't be surprised if I exploded.

"I– I _do_, but, I mean, I'm not going to invite myself over to someone's house while a crazed"–– shudder–– "_clown_ is looking for me. That's just wrong, especially since we've already established that I'm no one worth going out of one's way to protect." There is a long, still silence.

Then Bruce hits me on the back of the head. "_Idiot._ You don't get it, do you? It doesn't matter if you're a hero or an icon. We don't want you getting hurt!" I stare up at him, mouth hanging open. He sighs, and tries again. "We _like_ you!"

It's like I've been filled with liquid gold. My eyes open wide and I can feel my cheeks becoming, if possible, even warmer. I hesitate, turn an even deeper shade of maroon, and stammer out my response. "O-Oh."

They instantly begin arguing about whose house I'll stay at, but I'm in too much of a daze to offer any suggestions. Gordon's instantly ruled out, however, due to his having kids and a wife to protect, leaving me stuck between the two young alpha males. They way they fought, though, you'd think they were teenage girls or something equally frivolous.

"If she stays with you, Harvey, won't _Rachel_ become jealous?" Bruce teases mercilessly, I notice. I wryly wonder if he learned his talents on the playground. Dent is understandably irate, and counters hotly with something about my reputation being destroyed, but Bruce just smirks at him and tells him to worry about his own. This is escalating into a catfight.

"Ladies, please," I say, finally annoyed, "if you're going to bicker all night, I'll have to book a Ramada anyway. My reputation doesn't count for diddly squat, remember? Whereas you, Mr. Dent, have a lot to uphold. I'd stick with one to none rooming in your apartment for now." I smile sincerely, and clasp his hand. "Thank you for the offer anyway."

Bruce Wayne looks insufferably smug as he offers his arm, and he briefly nods to the others, indicating his goodbyes. I ignore the proffered arm, leaving him hanging awkwardly as I hug Gordon and shake Dent's hand in parting. Then, rolling my eyes at the others, I take him up on his offer and begin walking to the Lamborghini. "I'm not a prize to be displayed, Mr. Wayne," I whisper with mock indignation.

"That's what you think," he says, grinning as he opens the passenger door. And for once, I really have no response.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

We get back to Bruce's penthouse, laughing and joking around as he opens the car door and grabs my suitcase out of the trunk. Still giggling furiously, I turn to go through the doorway and slam into a pillar. Ow. Fuck, seriously Lord, can't I stop being a space cadet for more longer than a minute? I notice that some guy getting out of his car has stopped to point and laugh at me. We all just stand there like an operatic tableau for five minutes, listening to him crack up. I feel like dissolving, and then realize that the situation is so ridiculous that I start cackling again. I mean, honestly, who else does something like that?

And so, laughing heartily and holding onto each other for support, Bruce and I enter the penthouse, where I notice the piano for the first time. "Oooh!" I squeal, dancing to it like a little girl. "A _piano?_" I sit down and start running some scales. "If I knew you had one of these––" I pause. "––It probably wouldn't have made much difference. But its nice to know you have one! It means I have reason to _really_ like you!" Bruce laughs again, pouring out two glasses of wine.

"And you didn't before?"

I blush furiously, taking the proffered wine. "Sir, a girl in my position is not allowed to like someone like you too much."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Someone like me? What," he says, leaning on the piano, "pray tell, does that mean?" I incline my head away from him, deliberately looking down at my hands as I quietly begin playing Chopin's Prelude in A. I'm afraid of the nonsense that will pour from my mouth if I look at him.

"Mr. Wayne, you cannot be oblivious to your effect upon the many fine young women of the world. I mean that both emotionally, and, as Mr. Dent noted, in regard to their reputations. You are not known for monogamy." I turn my head a slightly in his direction, still keeping my eyes upon the keys, now playing one of Satie's _Gymnopédies_. "You are a Don Juan, sir–– a seducer of young women, and therefore a danger to any young journalist who has been told never to stray from the path."

"To grandmother's house?" I smile.

"More like to grandmother-ship!" Bruce laughs warmly, and I make the fatal mistake of looking into his gorgeous blue eyes. They're exactly the color of the ocean, I think. And begin to splutter. "I mean, _dignified_ grandmother-ship. That is, you know what they always say in Sex Ed–– about–– sedu––condoms––billionaires? Or something. Or nothing. Nevermind, nevermind!" I've gotten completely lost now both in my words and on the keyboard, God dammit. I slam the keys in frustration and embarrassment and snatch my glass from the surface of the piano, spilling champagne everywhere and looking like an idiot. Again. "Damn! I'll get towels," I shout, turning my customary shade of pink and jumping up, only to run into him, nearly knocking us both over. "Ahh, I'm sorry!" I yell, now losing it entirely. "I'll be right back, don't move anywhere I can run into you again, okay?" He only laughs at me, and I tear off through the penthouse––to get myself lost in about five seconds. I stand in the dark for a bit, delaying the inevitable.

"Bruce?"

"Yes Harriet?"

"Where, um, are the towels?" I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified.

"It's okay, Harriet, Alfred already cleaned it up." There's a long pause. "Do you need some help finding your way back?"

I answer in a very small voice. "Yes please."

Once we're back in the main room, I apologize to Alfred, who tells me not to worry. With nowhere else to go, I decide to return to the piano, and begin doodling out some of my favorite songs about insanity. Bruce returns, frowning quizzically at my choice of music. "I'm just thinking of our mutual acquaintance." The frown deepens. To explain, I stop and pull up the corners of my mouth with my fingertips. He laughs, though more uneasily.

"And what do you think of him?" I shrug.

"He's like a kid who never grew up and learned about gunpowder–– like if Peter Pan discovered explosives instead of Neverland." Bruce laughs again, and I do some rapid arpeggios. "He's not really the type for office work, really. He'd be so bored––and smashing things always gives more satisfaction than using them." He's giving me a strange look, and I laugh. "Well, its _true._ I mean, really, if you had a choice between an electric car and an entire roll of bubble wrap, which would you choose?"

He chuckles again, but admonishes, "People aren't bubble wrap, Harriet."

"Well, _yeah,_ but try telling that to him! And that––" I say with great finality, "is why we're different!" I smile brightly and continue singing about a man with anger repression who cuts off his therapist's feet with a machete and uses them to kick him in the head.

Bruce grins, saying, "You act like a child yourself."

I stick out my tongue. "Yeah, but I'm much, _much_ cuter."

Why didn't I invest in becoming a comedian? At this rate, I'll have the entire city laughing.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The next day, though, the smiles, grins, and laughs have vanished.

In the mail is a large parcel from "A S-s-secret Admirer," and the brown wrapping paper is inscribed with the same maniacal laughter that I found on the playing card. Needless to say, I freak out.

"No, I'm sorry," I yell at Bruce, who is asking me whether I think we should open it, "I'm not good with these things–– I'm the sort of technologically backwards person who will um and er and making twitchy motions over a device for hours without figuring anything out. I think we should smash the–– the thing with a hammer. I think we should smash it with a hammer as soon as possible, because I'm warning you right now, I was out sick during the week we learned to disable bombs in Home Ec."

After convincing me that trying to destroy a package without knowing what it is is decisively counter-productive, we––as in Alfred and Bruce, with me babbling about red wire blue wire in the background–– spend several frantic minutes of tapping, listening to, and feeling for anything that could indicate its contents as explosive in nature. Interestingly, when we squeeze the thing, all we can hear is crinkling paper. Curious, scared, and wanting to end this terrifying farce, I finally rip the brown wrapping back to reveal a copy of yesterday's newspaper, badly tampered with by the unmistakable hand of the Joker.

In edition to drawing a bright red Chelsea grin and raccoon eyes onto every person in every photograph, he's "edited" the headlines, captions, and articles with paragraphs and words type-written on green and yellow paper and duct-taped to the page. The weather reading says UNSEASONABLY CRUEL MONSOONS, CHANCE OF _ANARCHY_. And the main picture is of me, hand pressed against my bleeding head, with the headline: Harriet Vince: Martyr in the Battle Against HANGOVERS. I have a crude thought bubble that reads IF BRUNETTES HAVE ANY MORE FUN, I'M GOING BLONDE!!

I can't help it. I start laughing.

Alfred and Bruce stare at me, and I shrug through my giggles. "What," I say defensively, "it's funny!" I flip through the paper, continuing to snicker. "I know this journalist, you guys, and he gets it totally right–– she writes complete drivel–– especially about you Bruce. This is like reading National Lampoon!" I walk a ways away and begin giggling again at the headline below the picture of Mayor Garcia: UNIBROW Must Be SHAVED. I turn around to grin back into their stunned faces and frown. "You guys, really. You have to admit that when he isn't blowing shit up, he could possibly live up to his name." I read through his parody of a whiny letter to the editor, and start sniggering again. "I wonder if he does stand-up?"

The silence deepens.

I spin around to face the two older men, now distinctly annoyed. "_What?_ I'm sorry that I find this amusing, but I'm definitely happy that it isn't a bomb." Bruce finally sighs and pulls a facepalm, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

"You really can be an idiot sometimes, Harriet Vince." I nod serenely. I know this part already.

Bruce continues talking slowly, as if to a child. "This is clearly––" He stops as I giggle. Dent Cannot Believe IT'S NOT BUTTER. This man is hysterical! Noticing that the room's gone silent again, I look up into Bruce's disapproving face and drop the paper. He takes a deep breath. "This is clearly a threat–– if you go to work today, God knows what he'll do." He glances around at Alfred, who nods and goes to get his hat and coat. Bruce looks back at me, and I see myself reflected in his mature, serious eyes, looking for all the world as though I've been hit over the head again. He smiles grimly at me. "If you don't leave this penthouse, you'll be fine. It's the safest place in the city."

I attempt to voice my apology and disapproval at the same time, and it comes out in a strangled mess. "So–– so I just _sit_ here? I just sit here, instead of doing the one thing I'm capable of helping this shithole city with? Goddammit, Wayne, I'm not a fucking damsel in distress! I'm just a coward like any other sensible person." He laughs at me, but I'm angry now, and I pull him back around by his shoulders. "Wayne, this is my _job._ I'll know when to run, okay?" I take a ragged breath, and feel the void of fear consume me. "What if they blow up the building, Bruce, and I'm not there?" Blinking back tears, I gesture wildly. "What––What if they kill all those–– all those people––for no reason?"

I suddenly find myself in a tight, hot embrace, like a heated accordion is squeezing the air out of me. He growls, "Your dying is no reason either" in my ear, and suddenly I'm alone, locked in the penthouse.


	5. The Ultimatum

**Author's Note** (AKA DON'T YOU DARE IGNORE THIS)**:**

Oh yes, I realize that the storyline is all messed up. Let's just pretend that events of The Dark Knight are malleable pieces of gold–– beautiful metals that we can shape to hold precious jewels like Harriet Vince. XD

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Well, this is just fucking perfect.

I'm watching GCN, waiting for news of my workplace being blown to smithereens, when a special report arrives–– a teenager in a Batman costume was found hanging by his neck outside the Mayor's office window. The following airing was left upon his person. The Joker's already done this–– it's his method of scaring Gotham into agreeing with his "terms": Namely, his demand that the Batman to turn himself in. There is a scrabbling noise, and a shaky, tinny video that is clearly taken with a hand-held camera fills Bruce's Blue-Ray screen. I hear a sickeningly familiar raspy cackle fill my ears, and unconsciously pull my knees to my chest. I feel numb, petrified, watching as the camera moves towards an overweight boy in a Batman costume. He's tied to his chair, clearly trying to keep himself from breaking down in front of the monster filming him.

"What's your name?" A brief paroxysm shakes the camera.

"Br-Brian."

"And _Br-Brian––_are you–– ah, the _Bat-man?_" Giggling as the boy stammers in the negative. "No? _No?_ Then why–– hee hee hee–– _why_ are you _dressed_ like him?" A claw-like hand dangles a bat mask in front of the camera, and the fiend howls hyena-like. I swallow, hard.

The boy's voice returns, shaking despite his attempt at defiance. "B-because he's a symbol of what's right. H-he shows us that we don't have to be a-afraid of s-s-scum like you." The courage in the boy's voice falters and dies as the Joker bursts into peals of uproarious laughter.

"Oh, but you _do_, you _dooooo!_" He runs at Brian, who gasps and finally cracks. He blubbers, shutting his eyes like a giant baby, and the cameraman laughs harder than ever. "Shhhhh," the Joker murmurs mockingly, awkwardly petting the kid's head, "Shhhhhh-ssshhhhhhh-sssshehehehehe!" Suddenly the camera is flipped around, and I'm staring into the Jack-o-Lantern smile that haunts my nightmares. "This is your laaaaast _warn_-ing, Gotham. You know my––ah, _ultimatum_: The Bat unmasks, or, starting tonight, _people will die…_. I'm a man of my _word._" Then the picture is lost, and all that can be heard are the intermingling of hysterical cackling with the sound of Brian's screams.

I grab the remote and slam the power button. The television dies with a quiet "pop."

Just fucking perfect.

First I'm a hero. Then I'm a coward. And now I'm a damsel in distress? I growl at the dark television screen, kneading the couch in frustration. What do they want, my heroics or my safety? They're deliberately keeping me from the one thing I can to do to help–– tell the truth. I'm banging my chin on my knees, feeling all the helplessness and directionless anger surging through my body. It appears that the _pent_-house was aptly named.

I come to a resolution.

I might not be a cop, or an official, or–– or a hero.

But I am a reporter.

I run to the phone and, not giving myself time to reconsider, call my editor. "Tom! Tom, it's me, Harriet Vince, and I'm telling you right now, get out of that building and go to the nearest public library. Get as many people as you can, and just overrun that fucking library, make it your publishing center for the day. Believe me, Tom, when I say that very soon, the LA Times will not be the only newspaper that's been bombed." I pause to listen to his panicked voice saying that the police have just arrived and have told them to evacuate. "That's good, Tom, that's the best news I've gotten all day." I glare down at the tampered copy of yesterday's paper. "Tom, I need you to go the archives and get all you can on the mob–– on Batman. Anything at all!" Another pause. "Yes, I heard what he said. Yeah, I figured they'd want to turn him in, that's why I need those materials! I need them ASAP Tom, and I have to find a way to deliver them to the public before the Joker attacks someone." I pause. "Please, Tom, don't force me to do this alone." I hear him sigh and pledge to help me before hanging up the phone.

Dragging my typewriter from my suitcase and setting up at the kitchen counter, I stuff paper into it and begin typing as fast as I can.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

PANIC BUTTON

by Harriet Vane

_Gotham, we are at the edge of the precipice. We face a terror today far deadlier than any of the crime syndicates that preceded it, for they had comprehensible, if twisted, motives–– avarice, megalomania–– the sins of mankind. But the monster that has emerged from our closet has no such human ties. It is deliberately amoral, driven by nothing more or less than its own good pleasure. It laughs at our laws, finding amusement in our concepts of honor and good and evil, and mocks our need to cling to them when death negates them all. It wants nothing, except for the creation of nothingness–– it is a spirit of negation, an embodiment of Chaos. Against the power of life, fire is the only thing it can call its own. Gotham, I ask you to answer me with your true voice; I need you to summon it from the tenements, the apartment buildings, and the suburbs, and shout your reply till it resounds from the tips of the vaulting skyscrapers. Have you lost so much of your faith in humanity that you are willing to play dead for such a creature? Are you willing to surrender your humanity to fear?_

_We know a man who has given up such freedoms, but he has done so in the name of our protection, not through cowardice. He has sacrificed his life to become our guardian–– our night watchman. He has risked becoming the outcast and the pariah of our society to save it, and although no man is above the law, his controversial actions assure that this truth is upheld throughout the city. Without him, the city officials would never have been able to touch the mob. Without him, Gotham would have been decimated by the toxic madness of Dr. Crane and his fanatical associates. Without him, we would be suffering significantly more at the Joker's callous hands. In light of all of these acts and sacrifices, it would be the act of highest ingratitude to betray Batman._

_Will we play Judas to the one person armed with the power to save us? Will we bow our heads to our destruction, and let this villain overrun our minds and our lives? No. We shall not. We cannot. Let these threats strengthen rather than demolish our resolve, and we will have more than a fighting chance. We will have hope._

_And thus, against the ever-living _

_Creative power, that heals us from our pain,_

_You rage in your malevolent misgiving_

_And clench the fist of treachery in vain_

_Strange, sterile son of Chaos, think anew_

_And find yourself some better thing to do._

_ -Faust_


	6. The Butler Did It

**Author's Note **(DON'T YOU DARE IGNORE THIS)**:** I'd just like to thank everyone who took the time to notice little Harriet and her sometimes-courageous nature. She's really trying! And your encouragement and constructive criticism are like manna from heaven to her. She and I both would like to take this margin at the top of the page to offer thanks to **Laurenmlbc, Teenage.Anomaly, Nabierre, Aviarianna O Lorien, **and everyone who's still reading my drivel. Oh, and the faux Gotham Times can be found online, under w w w. t h e h a h a h a t i m e s. c o m –– minus the spaces and the flattering picture of Harriet, obviously. XD

Don't forget to review!

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By three o'clock in the afternoon, my article of defiance and persuasion has reached every corner of the Gotham media, from readings on talk shows to crude photocopies being passed out by paperboys.

By three thirty, Gordon, Dent, and Bruce are lecturing me on personal safety.

"You lied." Dent suddenly accuses me as the others stop to catch their breath. I am shocked.

"About what?" I ask, outraged. How dare he make slurs on my personal integrity when I just pulled Gotham's morale out of a nosedive? Dent paces back and forth, rolling his eyes, and finally throws his hands into the air.

"About not having a death wish!" I laugh, and scan my Joker-fied Gotham Times, turning to lie lengthways on the couch.

"But I _don't_, my dear DA! That's why I'm picking my fights from behind a typewriter!" I smile blithely. Dent just stares at me, mouth open and arms akimbo. He looks like a semi-evolved ape, but I really ought to keep my fresh comments to myself for now. Heh heh.

"A typewriter?" he yells, still staring at me. I nod, as I would to a little child.

"The thing that goes clickity-clack and prints words on paper, dear," I say in my most condescending tone. Bruce snorts with laughter, but instantly composes himself under the DA's fierce glare. Ooch. This is not one of Mr. Dent's more charming days.

"Do you really think that a typewriter will be any sort of protection against that man?" I laugh gently, and he steps back, visibly disconcerted by my response.

"Well, no, but that's why I have you–– right Mr. Dent?" He doesn't respond, but he looks pleasantly surprised––embarrassed, even. Gordon gives me an anxious, searching look.

"Why are you taking such risks, Harriet? I thought that this was exactly the thing you said you were incapable of doing." I laugh again, and spread my arms, trying to encompass the revelation I had experienced the day before.

"This isn't heroism, Gordon! I'm just doing the job I have to do. No one else was––is–– going to do it." I think I see, in my peripheral vision, Bruce's grin stretch a few more centimeters. "Don't worry! If he comes after me, I'll be prepared." I ball my fists and smile determinedly. There is a silence, in which they all give me incredulous looks. I explain, "You know, I'll use my natural weapons–– killer sarcasm and über-destructive klutziness. Bruce can testify." I grin at them.

And, completely blasé, I let them all head off to their various tasks, chortling contentedly. Who makes people work on Sundays, anyway? I know my job's not mandatory, especially after yesterday's mother load of an issue. I didn't expect Bruce to be going anywhere, but apparently he and Alfred have to consult with their co-worker, Lucius Fox, so I'm left home alone again, congratulating myself as I read about the resurge of brotherhood within Gotham, the large organizations being formed to "Save Batman." Finally, perhaps, I'm doing something right.

I flip on Bruce's enormous stereo system, plug it into the internet, and begin blasting "God Knows," in the empty penthouse, shredding air guitar in a white undershirt and key green boxers on Sunday morning. Yup, I know it: I'm _way_ cool.

_God knows that I would follow you/ If that is what you wanted/ Take me into all your darkest shadows and you'll see that/ I'm even stronger than you could know/ God knows that I am standing here/ And you could disappear/ Slipping right over the edge of the future–– if I had my way/ We'd be together forever/ Eternally God-blessed._ Spinning around on the drum roll, I kick out wildly and knock a large vase of flowers from a coffee table. Gasping, I dive for it, only to feel my fingers graze its handle a second before it smashes to bits.

My eye twitches.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Now I've really signed my death sentence. Alfred told me about this vase, it's Ming Dynasty and worth ba-gillons and apparently he's very fond and proud of it because he spent _his salary_ (however the hell much that may be) to buy the blasted thing, and I've just gone and broken it. Cold sweat forms on my brow as I realize that if the Joker doesn't kill me, the Butler definitely will.

And it was shaping up to be such a _nice_ Sunday.

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A few minutes later, I run into the Times building, hair flying from my ponytail and my eyes wild. Panicking, I had written an apologetic note to Alfred and took a fast cab to the office. Anywhere located at reasonable proximity away from that vase. _Clowns_ (shudder) with psychotic/pyromaniac tendencies I can–– I'm getting better about, but the idea of Alfred stalking me through the halls of a dark penthouse with a meat cleaver, glasses shining with crazed self-righteousness, is a bit more than I can handle. And I really don't want my epitaph to be The Butler Did It.

"Whoa, Harry!" I've almost run down Laura, the newspaper's morale officer, as I scuttle to get to my desk. Getting a better grip on the stack of folders she has, she gives me a mocking look. "Slow down, girl––is the Joker after you already?" I scowl at her ill-timed sense of humor.

"No, but the manservant is." Ignoring her look of bewilderment, I glance at the papers she is holding. "Demoralizers––? Laura, what are these?" She smirks, setting down the folders and flourishing a picture in my face.

"After your eloquent booster was spread 'round Gotham like the plague, everyone started acting real smug and over-confident. It's insufferable enough with the editor waltzing around, casually mentioning that you're staying at 'Bruce's' penthouse, so I'm printing out these personalized demoralizers for everyone. It's just to balance out the atmosphere, really. I mean, we shouldn't have to deal with smug pollution on top of everything else." She grins as I roll my eyes.

"Such impeccable logic in someone so–– irrational! Really, Laura, your frivolity never ceases to amaze me." She blows a raspberry and presses the folder into my chest, smiling.

"Why Harry, you smug old hypocrite! Here, take the lot of 'em–– but first, look at the one I wanted to give you personally." It's a picture of two pigmy owls. One of them looks distinctly irate, sardonic, even, but the other has its head cocked to the side, wide-eyed and stupid looking. The caption is RETARDS: We All Know One.

Before I can retort, Laura has uttered a cheerful "Buh-bye!" and swanned off, leaving me to huff. And she complains about people being insufferable.

At lunch, I'm invited to Pasquale's Bistro by a large group of people that I've never really talked to, or ever really wanted to. Namely, Constance B. Mooreston, the author of "The Awful Truth," a truly awful syndicate, and her fawning cronies, whose articles are better fit for a tabloid than a serious newspaper. They screech and squeal about the level of crime, but refuse to acknowledge the good effects of Batman, instead placing all of their faith in good-natured, good-looking, just plain _good_ Harvey Dent. Being at their table was like being back in my middle school, surrounded by blithering, moronic children. I am brought to the brink of committing seppuku with my butter knife when they begin showering me with praise––sycophantism subtly laced with the poison of anti-vigilante dogma. I want to let the anger I feel boiling within explode out of me, want to scream at them and ask if they would rather I be a courageous citizen, or someone who leaves the trouble to be sorted out by the police–– by Mr. _Dent._ But I can't. It'd be very impolite.

Manners, however, don't stop _them_ from inquiring after Bruce. "So, Harriet––" Constance says through a mouthful of lettuce. I clench and unclench the handle of my butter knife under the table. I really wish she wouldn't call me that. I never gave her my permission to be so familiar with me, I'm sure. "Are you getting an, mmm, close- up shot of Mr. Wayne? I hear that he's let you move in with him––" She pauses, gauging my reaction, and continues, "––And that he treats you quite like his little sister!"

Titter away, envious bitch. I smile, saying, "Then it's a good thing he's not known for his incestuous tendencies, isn't it!" There is a long and blissful silence. I dig into my steak. "Good meat, this," I comment cheerfully. "Very bloody."

Constance clears her throat slightly, looking a little admonished. "Harriet, dear––" Dammit, woman, I'm not your daughter! "–– I don't mean to put you on the spot, really, but I've made it my job to investigate the vices of the people upon whom we place responsibility." Clearly, you nosy old hag. "I know that he's charismatic––" but isn't Dent a _dreamboat?_ "––But you can't let that fool you into doing something–– unwise." Like sleep in his apartment!

As I try to take a drink, Constance grabs my arm, makes me set the drink down, and comfortingly clasps my wrist. I stare at her and her "sympathetic" face. Is she checking to see if I have a pulse or something? "Just remember–– if anything happens, call me." She slides her business card across the table, and the others nod solemnly. I have to forcibly stop myself from rolling my eyes. Sure, Constance, next time I sleep with Bruce Wayne, I'll throw a slumber party and we'll have big girl bonding time. With a tight smile, I pretend that I have to leave, even though I've only eaten two bites of cow, ad-libbing something about a personal interview with Batman on the top of Wayne Tower. Before they can say anything other than "See you around," I'm making a dash for the door.

I don't quite make it outside, however.

"Whyyyy hel-_lo, gorgeous._"


	7. The Abduction

I pretend that I have to leave, and before they can say anything other than "See you around," I'm making a dash for the door

_I pretend that I have to leave, and before they can say anything other than "See you around," I'm making a dash for the door._

_I don't quite make it outside, however._

"_Whyyyy hel-_lo_, _gorgeous_."_

I've just run smack-dab into my worst nightmare. Hearing his rasping voice, akin to nails being attacked with a chainsaw, give his personal greeting, I freeze two inches from his torso, wide-eyed. Slowly, I look up at the face all Gotham has learned to know and love, now stretched with a yellow-toothed grin. The humor doesn't reach his black-rimmed eyes. It's like staring into the gaze of a big, hungry wolf, and I feel my heart beating like timpani in my throat. Well, Bruce. I might not _make_ it to grandmother-ship.

I back away from the hunched, giggling figure, whose smile widens at the fear apparent in my face. "Whatsa matter? _Lost for words?_" I choke slightly on my breath, moving slowly back towards my table as restaurant-goers all around me scream and run in flurried panic for any and all the exits. The reaction couldn't have been better if the kitchen had caught fire. Witnessing my inching retreat, the Joker cackles and jumps onto the table in front of me. "You'll have to move faster than _tha-t_ if you want to get out of here, _girly_." He gazes around, reveling in the terror he inspires, and I take advantage of his distraction to grab my steak knife off of my plate. "Why, what's gotten into them all? I'm sure I made, ah, res_-er-_vations!"

Acting quickly, I pull the tablecloth the Joker stands on out from under him, and he falls on his back, just like a cartoon character. Instantly, I grab him by his collar and put the steak knife, still dripping with cow fluids, to his neck. His cohorts freeze. I feel his pulse quicken, not with fear, but with excitement, see his face light up like a florescent bulb. He licks his lips, eyes shining sadistically. "Quite the little, ah, _warrior_, aren't we Miss Vince?" His voice is low, sly, and insidious. "You've got a dan-ger-ous mind up there, locked behind all your _fine_ _wooords_, don't you? Something not quite, ah, _irreprehensible._"

He drags his skin across the edge of the knife, letting its shining serrated edge draw a thin red bead, still grinning like a hyena. I feel nauseous. I take a steadying breath, and in the second I take close my eyes and compose myself, the blade is wrenched from my hand, and my arm is twisted behind my back, his breath hot and humid on the nape of my neck. "I _like_ this side of you." He giggles. "You know… for a while there, I actually thought you could be an innocent?" He's far too close to me. I can feel his body heat just past the pain in my arm–– oh God, has he broken it? "But it just goes to show–– nobody's perfect!" He lets go of my arm.

With a shove, I'm face down on the floor, breathing in dust, the smell of the carpet, watching the others' shoes come closer, seeing the wrinkles of my right thumb, the carved lions' heads on the table legs, feeling pain and warmth and fear, hearing his screeching, terrifying laugh. Are these going to be the last things I see? "Fuck, God," I mutter, turning over and squeezing my eyes tight, "I know you hate me and all, but isn't it your day off?" Unfortunately, the Joker's heard my little grumble and begins cackling all over again.

"Oh––oh _dear_––she's _funny!_ Hee hee hee, are you and the Big Man having a–– a _tiff_, dear? Well, there isn't _really_ a savior for people like us, is there?" I glare daggers at his mock sympathy, and he pretends to be hurt, pouting through his Cheshire grin. "Oh, Miss _Vince_, you must admit that we have quite a bit in common!"

"Yeah," I say darkly, "like how we both can't shut our mouths."

There is a long, deep, and ominous silence.

The Joker licks his lips, glances at the ceiling, and says in a high-pitched drawl, "You know, you really have a _knack_ of bringing the worst upon yourself."

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I awaken to the smell of petroleum and the sound of evil laughter in a pitch-black room. "Wakey wakey, sedative head! You've got a big night ahead of you!" I look around, groggy from whatever they knocked me out with, and quickly becoming tense with apprehension. Judging by the distant sound of water, I'm in a warehouse, one of those conveniently abandoned ones located by the wharf. My hands, knees, and feet are tied with long, fizzing fuses, all of them linked together, wrapped around my body. Each loose end is burning fiercely, and I wonder what horrible demise I would have come to, if I had not–– well, come to. I stare at the fiery tips for a minute and awkwardly nudge one of them with my hands. "Ah-ah-ah!" the voice cackles. "I wouldn't do that, if _I_ were you." Ignoring him, I persevere to pick up one of the ones by my feet, and finally see where the smell is coming from.

In the space just beyond my body, the Joker's placed a veritable moat of oil.

"You've sized it up, haven't you? You see the, ah, pre-_dicamen-t_. You, little, he he, little Miss Vince, are damned if you _do_ and damned if you _don't!_ So why don't–– why don't we just play a _little game._" He giggles as I twist my head around, trying to find the source of the voice. I finally locate a little red light directly behind me. A camera, I think. "This is one of those little annoying things where I can see _you_, but you can't see _me_. So I'd stop squirming–– you're only, ah, _compromising_ yourself." I instantly freeze. This is one of those times when one is forced to reflect bitterly upon their deficit of brainpower. My stupid tongue needs to twist itself into a pretzel and burn. No, on second thought, scratch burning–– and curse the caveman that invented it.

The sly voice continues, sneaky and sinister and odious. "Little Harriet Vince, you just don't understand, do you?" He lowers his voice, purring, "I _like_ you." I start at the sick, inverted déjà vu. "That's why I'm giving you a, ah, fighting _chance_. Of course, to _win_, you'll have to break some of your precious rules. But," the Joker giggles, "once you hear the terms, my little hero-_ine_, you'll understand why.

"You've told everyone about my de-_spic_-able nature, but how are _you_ any different? Hmm? Until today, girly, you've avoided confrontation like the plague." That's because before now, Mr. Joker, I was a sensible-minded coward. "I think I know why–– you're not just _afraid._" I look at the camera incredulously. "You're afraid of becoming like _me._ Like your precious _bat._ But when it comes down to the wire, heh heh heh, when you don't have your rag of a newspaper between yourself and the world–– you're nothing but an ani-mal." He giggles wildly as I glare into the little red light. "A _freak._ Like––"

"A platypus."

There's a blissfully long silence.

"What?"

"You know, the animal that looks like a beaver-duck with otter feet and has poisonous spurs on their hind ankles? Weird little buggers–– can pick up electric signals with their bills. Sorry, I did a project in the third grade. You were saying something?" Throughout this bizarre, panic-inspired exchange, I've been attempting to get free from my bonds with the limited capacity for movement that I have. The Joker begins laughing again, loud and hard, and I wish desperately that I could chuck a brick at his head.

"Ooh-hoo-hoo Miss Vince, this is ex-_act_-ly why I'd love to keep you around–– you have a _wonderful_ sense of timing! You'd better hurry, though, or else your, ah, _natural talents_ won't be of much use to little Jonathon Tambling." I pause, ice water running through my veins.

"Little–– you bastard, what are you trying to prove!" I yell into the darkness, hearing my words ring and echo through the metal warehouse.

"_Me?_ I think you know very well–– you knew when you wrote the _article_. I think you've known all your life." I stare into the little red light, feeling the anger inside me boil and scald, lit from beneath by the fizzing fuse that is my temper. I've always been pretty mild-mannered, but now I feel that if he says one more sickening word, whatever is inside me will not be hesitant in its desire to commit homicide.

"Mr. Joker sir? May I ask you ask you to very sweetly shut the fuck up? I'm kind of, um, _preoccupied_ right now." He giggles hysterically.

"Well, certainly–– but don't you at least wanna _clue_ as to where poor little Johnny is?" I swallow, hard, and nod to the camera. "Okay, here goes: 'A peanut sat on the railroad track; his heart was all a-flutter. 'Round the bend came number ten and _TOOT! TOOT!_' _––_"

"Peanut butter," I whisper.

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Sorry to cut this sort, but the cliffhanger was too good to pass up! XD Hee hee hee, I'm so evil! Sneaks away on tiptoe, rubbing hands deviously


	8. The Train: Director's Cut

Explanation:

I'm sorry about the last version of this chapter–– one, for its poor quality, and two, for its being so incomplete. I uploaded the wrong version of the chapter, but have fixed this now (see The Train: Director's Cut). SO REREAD IT.

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_Love is a burning thing/ And it makes a fiery ring/ Bound by wild desire/  I fell in to a ring of fire... / I fell in to a burning ring of fire/ I went down, down, down  and the flames went higher/  And it burns, burns, burns  the ring of fire/ The ring of fire._

I _loathe_ the Joker.

"You know why I'm doing this, Harriet?" He's managed to make himself heard over Johnny Cash, and is now doing his best impression of an obnoxious, incorrigible child pestering his mother as she tries to talk on the phone. "Hmmmm? Harriet? Do you?" I grind my teeth together. I want to smash that damnable camera and continue jumping on it until it's pulverized, or until I get blisters. I hate fuses, I hate his sick, sadistic "game," I hate fossil fuels, I hate my life–– but I abso-fucking-lutely _despise_ that _damn clown_.

"You must not have a really _strong_ inclination to keep me alive, mister, or else you'd _shut the fuck up._" I glower over my shoulder at the camera, which just emits another paroxysm of giggles.

"It's funny, the way, ah, the way that you're starting to _crack_ under pressure: you're not being so careful with your _language,_ my little journa_list_." Now it's my turn to laugh.

"Careful with my _language?_ Mr. Joker, do not kid yourself. We both know that my inability to silence my verbal idiocy is the reason I'm here, being tormented by you. And if you're referring to the swearing, well––" I allow myself a small self-deprecating smile. "Let's just say that I've watched a lot of Quentin Tarantino movies." I turn around; pause, and glare back over my shoulder. "That being said, once I'm out of here, I'm going _medieval_ on your ass."

I face my bonds again, blocking out that bastard's maniacal laughter. It has been a little over a minute since I learned the extent of the Joker's depravity, and the fuses incapacitating me are still, I notice unhappily, sizzling with their original fervor. No lucky gust of wind has blown them out since I awoke in the warehouse, and certainly no caped crusader has come to rescue me. But that's part of the game, apparently: I'm supposed to prove to Gotham–– to myself–– that I can be considered a "real hero", a true symbol of bravery, and not just Batman's cheerleader. But I know he doesn't want me to _succeed_, in fact, he's depending upon me–– and poor Johnny Tambling–– dying. No, he's making an _example_ of the heroes, showing that people like me are too human to fight demons like him. A twisted Faustian story, this is.

The one nice thing the Joker _has_ done for me is to place all the lit fuses where I see them–– I think. I hope. But there is nothing that I could possibly use on them, other than possibly smothering the flames with my clothing, which I was happily surprised to find still on my body. Taking care to keep my back turned to the little red light and the lit fuses in my line of vision, I begin checking my pockets awkwardly, both hands scrabbling at the fabric for anything, anything at all–– and to my shock, I feel a small, square-shaped lump in my right coat pocket. I force myself not to freeze or look conspicuous, pretending to check the inside hems of my coat even more frantically while drawing the coat's material in front of me and surreptitiously retrieving the item.

I stare at what appears to be a jewelry box, nonplussed. It's black velvet, the sort of little box that would hold your anniversary earrings, or–– I gasp, horrified. This is _exactly_ the sort of proposal one would expect from the Joker. Tying the prospective bride with bomb fuse, placing her within a circle of petrol, and leaving her to discover the engagement ring to the sound of–– oh _God_–– "Ring of Fire?" _The taste of love is sweet/ When hearts like our's meet/  I fell for you like a child/ Oh… but the fire went wild._ Ugh. Theatrical and sadistic. Completely to his taste.

"Harriet, the clock's a-tick_ing_!" The Joker's voice calls out, gleefully singsong and sadistic. "Have you, ah, found the _key to safety_ yet?" My eyes bulge from their sockets. No way. No way a make-up wearing psychopath is proposing me to at death's threshold. This cannot be fucking happening. I mean, he doesn't like me _that_ much. Hands trembling, I open the lid and just manage to catch a small piece of paper before slips out of the box. Honestly, Joker, you could've just _asked._ I unfold it, however, still clutching the jewelry box.

_Harriet_

_I have no right to compare myself with you–– your bravery awes me as much as it worries me, and although I know you'll be fine, I want you to have this, both as a token of my admiration and as a protection against your enemies. I had Lucius make it yesterday, after the article came out, and I hope it serves you well._

_You are forever my hero._

_Bruce_

Stifling relieved laughter, I look into the box, and begin chuckling softly under my breath. It's a razor blade on a steel chain, and cut out of the center is a small bat icon. _You are forever my hero._ Steady breaths, Harry, save your tears for appropriate occasions. I know what course to take–– I always have. Now it's just a matter of how.

Quickly and quietly, I begin severing the ends of the fuses from their main bodies, halving the cords as exactly as I can and laying each of them in front of me, making sure that there is both enough cord for me to play for time, at that, when I face the camera, it'll still look like the lit ends are trailing behind me. Then I turn slowly on my hands and knees to face the Joker, clenching the chain of Bruce's present behind my back and summoning every ounce of liquid to my eyes.

I hesitate, and murmur brokenly, "You really want me dead, don't you Mr. Joker?"

He muses on this, and when he speaks, I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Hmmm, ya know, Harriet Vince, I don't think I _do._ I haven't had this much fun in _days!_ Though, ah, _you_ had quite a bit to do with that, m'dear." He licks his lips audibly. "I'd say that this is–– is merely a _test,_ of your _true loyalties_, as it were. I'd suggest you choose your friends fast, though," he purrs, "'cause the _fire_ is starting to think you're _his_ companion-for-life, hee hee hee!"

Taking my cue, I pretend to break down, letting my tears run like a faucet turned on full-blast. "Pl-please, Joker–– I–– I won't cause any more trouble for you–– I just–– I just want to go home––!" I stare into the camera, eyes gushing water like the Niagara, and hear his deranged cackling fill the darkness like a warped laugh track. "Pl-_please!_ I just–– want to go _home––!"_

"Home? As in your best mate's _pad?_" I start and turn crimson, not having realized what I was saying. Wayne's penthouse is my home now–– my safe haven, provided Alfred isn't there. But the Joker doesn't stop there. "Well, you know––" he giggles "–– what they say about 'home being where the _heart_ _is!_'" I feel as if I'm having a cardiac arrest. What is he implying? What does he know about me? I can't take the chance of finding out. I shuffle forward on my knees, weeping and splashing through the petrol, smelling danger splatter my person, though my fuses still trail far behind me, and feel for the camera, grabbing it with both hands and looking directly into its lens.

"Please. _Please._ I know you need good publicity, Joker–– you need _fear_. I can give you that! I can be your spokesperson for however long you need me, and–– and be easily disposed of afterwards–– _just_ _don't kill me!_"

The lights go on, and I blink, dumbfounded at the sight before me.

He's been here the entire time. He's been sitting here with stereo, microphone, speakers, video camera–– and a truckload of clowns. I sigh with relief, scooting backwards and putting my feet out in front of me as one of them approaches with a gun and a knife, which he uses to cut my bonds. "Public Relations Lesson Number One: Appealing to public knowledge. For a Joker, sir, you're really uninformed–– don't you know that you can fit a thousand clowns in a _tiny_ car?" He giggles, scars twitching with nervous pleasure, basking in his apparent victory.

"Ready to be _friends,_ Harriet the Spy? Ready to play nice with the other children?" I pretend to consider this as my bonds around my ankles are cut, while slowly reaching behind me and letting my left hand curl around the severed ends of the long, still-burning fuses. In my other hand, I grasp my silver chain; my savior.

The madman with the knife drawls on, perhaps sensing that something is not right. "Now is not the time to reconsider, m'dear. Now is the time to com_mit._" Henchman number one shifts his position slightly, and I see the muscles under his long-sleeved shirt ripple, the way the ocean does when a dorsal fin carves through its surface. I look around at them all, the jackals, hyenas, and curs stuffed into clown suits, their sharp white canines hidden by ridiculous masks. I reserve my longest inspection for the king of beasts presiding in their midst, see the predatory posture, the malice in his paste-white face and black eyes. I know then that I can never be one of them–– I can never be made a circus animal, to perform at a ringmaster's leisure. Never.

I stand up slowly, shaking my head. "I'm afraid that we can never be friends, Joker. At best, we'll be congenial enemies," I say, as the man who freed me, hearing this, instantly charges me, gun raised. "And this––" I continue, turning 180 degrees to hide the lit fuses and using my entire body weight to slam the clown's gun arm into the wall, making him drop the firearm with a yell, "––is not the best of times. Now––" I slip my necklace over my head and grab the gun from the floor with my right hand, turning around to aim it directly between the Joker's eyes "–– you tell me _exactly_ where Jonathan Tambling is and _exactly_ how long I have to save him or I paint a Jackson Pollack with your grey matter."

There is a lull in the conversation. The Joker considers my bargain, staring out at me from under hooded eyes, mouth slowly twisting into a smirk. "Does this, ah, _bravery_ make you feel righteous, hmmm, Harriet?" he purrs. "Are you _pleased_ with what you're, ah, prepared to do? Oh, don't worry–– I'll tell you where Johnny is. You see, I have nothing to lose, whereas _you_–– you have _everything_ to fear in failure. And fear _everything_.

"But go right ahead–– run along to the, ah, Metro-link station at _Wayne Tower,_ little girl_._ Scamper to save some 'innocent' you've never met–– and, in forty-five minutes ex_-act-_ly, will never _meet_. And remember this, m'dear –– if little Johnny dies, or if the Bat freak saves him, you're _mine._ Oh, and if Batty McBatster gets there first–– I'll kill the kid myself. Think about that. You're my col_lateral, _girly, so don't _damage _yourself…." He begins cackling again, as his henchmen prepare to rush me, the girl with one gun.

"You know, Joker, I don't think that this is really a "ha-ha" sort of funny–– this is more of a _quiet_ sort of funny," I say, quickly stepping backwards, placing the gun into my right back pocket (clicking the safety as I do so) and moving to the other side of the moat of oil. Nasty, _nasty_ petroleum, I will never deal with you're liquefied dino remains ever again. I renounce all diesel vehicles now and will buy myself a nice _electric_ car, yessireebob!

…I'm really happy no one heard that.

"No, but that's because the joke's on you!" the Joker crows, startling me out of my spell of temporary insanity.

"Well," I mutter, pulling the lit fuses from behind my back, "I wouldn't go _that_ far." And with that, I toss them onto the oil, listening as he bursts out laughing. Then I'm running as fast as I can out of the warehouse, trying to scream as his sick laughter echoes just behind my clanging footfall, throwing myself against the sliding door and bursting out onto the wharf, just barely catching myself from flying headlong into the water. I run like a madwoman chased by phantoms (which I've seen, by the way, and it's really amusing). I run terrified of what I must do––what I have already done–– to save this boy, this little Johnny, whom, as the Joker said, I've never even met.

But it's my job–– and no one else can do it.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

I pull up in a taxi to the most famous landmark in Gotham–– Wayne Tower. Craning my neck, I shield my eyes from the neon and sodium lights glinting off of the immense building and the newly-rebuilt monorail leading into its station, located mid-way up its glass and steel structure. Its terrifying to understand that somewhere on those rails, a boy only has twenty-five minutes left to live–– and that I, a mere journalist, am the only person who can save him.

It seems, however, that I'm not the only one who's trying to.

A giant spotlight is focused on the boy, who is being guarded by a small gang of thugs, who appear gunning down anyone who attempts to free the boy, namely, the policemen carefully walking to avoid the edges of the narrow track and calling to the child not to panic. I have stepped into a crowd which has gathered at the base of the building, and which includes a crew from GCN. "This child's life it appears is unfortunately yet another pawn in the battle for Gotham. The Tamblings, prestigious city patrons and avid, outspoken Batman supporters are facing a crisis more terrifying than any attack on the Narrows, armed robbery, or public bombing–– the willful abduction and murder of their child." Behind me, a woman screams, flailing helpless against the cops restraining her.

"That's my son!" She wails, her hair flying and mascara running in rivulets down her cheeks. "_Jonathon!_ Someone, save the life of my child! Save my boy!" Her anguish pierces my heart like ice, and I too begin struggling to get into the Wayne building. The GCN woman continues her fretful commentary.

"The psychopath who operates under the alias 'The Joker' hijacked the Gotham monorail at the 9:10 wharf rail station and is driving it at full speed towards Wayne Tower. He has given two methods of ransom: either Batman turns himself in, or a citizen–– not a policeman–– dares to save little Jonathon. DA Harvey Dent has declared this bargain unacceptable, but police forces have been halved in the search for Harriet Vince, twenty-five-year-old journalist whose heroic stand against the Joker may have brought her to an untimely end––" I don't stop to listen to the rest, but, adrenaline pumping, shove my way to the front.

"Officer," I scream to the policeman, "Officer please listen I _have_ to get up there. It is––" I inwardly wince at the obvious cliché "–– a matter of life and death! I have to save that boy!" The policeman (or boy, rather) shakes his head violently.

"I'm sorry miss, I have strict orders from Harvey Dent not to let anyone through. There's no way someone could save that kid now and get out of that train's way in time. Let the officials take care of it, please!" I point to the center of the spotlight where rapid gunfire is accompanied by the screams of policemen.

"Your officials aren't going to be able to hold out much longer–– can't you see that the Joker will just keep on murdering your men until one of us goes up there ourselves? Jonathon will never be saved! We can't let this continue–– you have to let me through!" I'm crying, throat raw from screaming.

"Miss, I can't let you!" I look up at the clock. Twenty minutes. I have no time for this. I pull out my gun, pointing it over the officer's heart, and the crowd screams and draws back like an animal from pain.

"Let me through!"

"Miss, I can't!" I cock the revolver, sweat pouring from my face.

"Either you let me by or I walk over your corpse!" The officer only shakes his head, eyes huge with fear. The gun trembles in my hands, and I glance towards the monorail, its structure. Could I face myself if I killed him? I freeze–– this is what the Joker wanted. He wanted me to crack, transgress my own moral code. I can't do that. No matter what happens, I can't let him win!

I hesitate, then throw the gun as far from me as possible. Without waiting for a response, I race back out through the frightened masses and straight to the metal structures holding the railroad tracks, a spotlight trained on me all the way. Lucky me. These columns have no ladders. For the second time in the last three days, I have to climb an unwieldy structure to save a life–– except now it's not my own.

I throw off my heels and my coat and begin to climb the crisscrossing metal bars. They're hard and ice-cold, and I can feel them shudder with the approach of the train, feel cuts two days old reopen. The climbing is fairly easy, consisting of a steady pattern of bracing alternating feet on v-shaped angles, but when I hear the shot of a machine gun and see policemen plummet to their deaths (if they aren't dead already), my bloody, cut palms and feet tremble and slip ever so painfully on the steel I scale. I do not, in any circumstances, look down.

I hear the clock on Wayne Tower strike a quarter to ten, and gasp in dismay, looking up towards the rail. I'm not even halfway up the support! Panicking, and fueled by pure adrenaline, begin rushing to get to the top. I cannot let my stupidity and over-confidence be the demise of another, especially when the execution is so cruel and clichéd. The Joker seeks to make mockeries of us all, even the most innocent, even in death. Thinking of this, I speed to the top of the support, gasping for breath and relief from the pain in my hands and feet. As I begin pulling myself up, the rumble of the approaching train throws me sideways, leaving me clinging to the edge of the track platform with one hand as my arm twists back and around, screaming as the sudden wrench I experience snaps something in my shoulder, sending waves of excruciating pain through my body.

Ignoring the fireworks that burst before my eyes, I swing my good arm upon the platform, and using my elbow as a support, pull myself over the edge. Taking a short pause to clutch my arm to my chest and whimper like a kicked dog, I stand on the monorail, bloody feet slipping slightly as I see, with pronounced horror, the very distant, speeding light of the train growing larger with each passing second. I can't pick my way over to the hostage–– I don't have enough time. Hoping desperately that my momentum will carry me forward before my feet can slip over the edge of the platform, I begin dashing _on _the monorail, its smooth metal pipe treacherously slippery, glaring in the spotlight.

Without pausing–– without thinking–– I run towards the Joker's men, who, seeing me, lower their weapons. "It's her," I hear one mutter into a walkie-talkie as I rush past him, barreling through he and his five or six compatriots, eyes tearing as I nearly trip over the tiny supine figure of little Jonathon. Falling prostrate before him and bloodying his person with my hands, I slip Bruce's present from around my neck and cut, as quickly as I can with a lamed right arm, the boy's bonds and remove his gag. He instantly breaks down, throwing his arms around my neck, and I choke to him that it'll be okay, looking at the little miracle I have clasped in my fist.

Then I notice that the gangsters have left, see a grappling hook disappear off of the side of the platform, and clench the razor blade in my already-bleeding hand. When the rats abandon ship…. I hear a squealing of metal on metal as, to my horror, I see train number ten come screeching around the bend, faster and faster, as the clock begins to strike ten o'clock sharp. Jonathon and I are too far from the Tower, I realize, panicking. There's no way that we'll be able to escape the train if we run along the rail, and John's trembling so hard, I doubt he could dash across a broom closet without falling over. I swallow, reaching down and taking his delicate child's hand in mine. Looking down into his round face, hear my distant voice ask him to trust me. He nods, terrified, eyes as big as portholes and the same shade as the ocean. They are the last things I will probably ever see.

I leap into space as the train thunders down upon us, pulling the boy with me and swinging him over myself and clutching him to my chest with both arms as I fall parallel to the ground, hoping to cushion him with my body when we make impact with the earth. The air whistles around me like a thousand dog calls, a thousand memories fleeing my falling body. My mother with her dark, navy blue eyes warm and smiling. My brother, twisted smile curling up affectionately. My father whose arms I could always find protection in. And Bruce. I see stars through the cracks in the smog, and all thoughts of pain gone, smile at the blade I hold in my crimson hand. I will die proud to still call myself his hero, I think. Tears are flying upwards, off of my face, rain falling the wrong way. I shut my eyes.

Suddenly something–– or someone–– slams into me sideways. Gasping, Jonathan and I feel an incredibly strong arm grip us in a protective embrace, and hear the sound of whizzing cord somewhere above our heads. Grappling hooks? I look at the arm clutching me. Black leather? I slowly stare up in awe at the famous masked visage above me, the vigilante who has now saved me twice in four days, and turn pale. Would the Joker consider this a breach of conditions? "Please," I whisper brokenly. "Please, if you have any capacity for empathy, let us drop, let me catch the boy's fall. You–– you don't know what he'll _do––_"

"No." I can barely hear his deep voice over the noise of the train. He does not look down at Jonathon or me. "Don't worry–– he knows you saved the boy. I'm here to save you." I flush bright red and blink away tears of gratitude, resting my pounding head against his chest.

"Thank you, then, Batman."

As soon as the train goes by, our savior gently lowers us back onto the monorail platform, as the crowd below us screams and cheers, shining the spotlight on our tearful, joyous faces, our filthy and bloody persons, and the cipher that is Batman. I turn to look at him, smiling. "You know what I _really_ think prompted this?" I lean in close, as if to tell him a secret. "'Gadget envy!' The Joker was just fed up with having to deal with all of your cool toys!"

I can swear he chuckles, but the sound is so low, it could just be my stomach rumbling. Speaking of which, I think guiltily, as my guts voice their extreme hunger. "Wow. I'd better feed the creature that's taken up lodging in my innards, or else I'm afraid it'll start devouring me from the inside. Or leap out of my mouth and rampage through Gotham." Now I _know_ he's laughing at me. I roll my eyes at myself. "Never trust an empty stomach to say something profound, whether it has barely escaped death or not. Ah, well. Steak, steak, all for me!" I chortle, slipping my bloody necklace over my head again. I see the Batman's eyes dart to it, but I keep on chattering. "Though I doubt they'll let me in like this." He nods solemnly and I imitate him with mock seriousness. "You know what they say: no shoes," I wiggle my toes, "no service!" Now, suddenly, he grins, and I gasp. "Who knew the caped crusader had a sense of humor? I know _I'm_ shocked! Can someone from GCN get up here and film this breaking news, please?" I say, calling over the side. "Honestly, people, you can be such slackers!"

I turn back around, and he's vanished. "Dammit!" I yell, whirling 360 degrees.

"Yes, well," Gordon says, stepping out of the shadow beyond the spotlight, smiling, "he tends to do that."

Silence comes to rest between the two of us, a moment in which we merely stand and stare at each other. And then, mustache curving with his beaming mouth, and eyes very very bright, Gordon hugs me. "Don't you _ever_–– I mean, _ever_–– do that again!" I begin to sob into his Kevlar, heart rent by the words of a parent. "Please Harriet, you're far too precious to be throwing yourself off of monorails." I choke on a watery laugh, and lean back to look him in the face. He smiles again, and gently uses his thumb to wipe my tears. "Come on," he murmurs. "You've been hero enough for one day." And with my hand in his, I follow him into Wayne Tower.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Well, you may have noticed that I fixed this up! Hee hee–– that's the ending of _this_ particular story. Don't worry, don't worry! That's not the end at all. It's just the end of the, ah, the _first issue_ of Harriet's adventures. Believe me, the Joker's not giving up _that_ easily, ha ha ha! This is Book I. I hope you enjoyed it.

READ AND REVIEW! XD


	9. Book II: Look Over Your Shoulder

_When there's a bluebird singing by your window pane _

_And the sun shines bright all day through _

_Don't forget boy _

_Look over your shoulder _

_'Cause there's always someone coming after you_

––Alan Price, "Look Over Your Shoulder"

It's a beautiful day for the Inquisition, I think wryly. The sun is shining, bright and beautiful, glimmering off of five stories of windows and glancing off of the steel Gothic statues still standing from the 40s. I'm wedged between Dent (who insists I call him Harvey now) and Bruce on chairs outside City Hall, wearing an absolutely ridiculous outfit. It looks like a costume error from the combined sets of _My Fair Lady_ and _Blade Runner_, complete with oversized hat, skin tight dress, and thigh length boots–– all black, of course. And on this sweltering day, I am discomforted both emotionally and physically, and my so-called friends are thoroughly taking advantage of it.

"Dent?" Bruce says from my right side, where the hat obscures the whole of his upper body. "Dent! Are you there?" I roll my eyes, exasperated beyond belief. They've been doing this all morning.

"Wayne? Where are you? Are you hiding?"

"No, Dent! Actually, I think I'm being held hostage! I can't see any of the outside world, and there's this big, menacing black discus encroaching upon me!"

"Oh God, Wayne, how did you get yourself into this terrifying situation?"

"I don't know, Dent, but I think it's trying to frill me to death!"

"Okay, enough," I snap, purposefully turning to glare at Bruce and hitting Dent in the face with my hat. "You know that the hat wasn't my idea! Nor the etiquette lessons," I continue, ignoring both Dent's little noise of pain and Bruce's smirk, "or the calligraphy classes, or the ballroom dancing. That, my friend, was your _butler's_ idea. Or, rather, _revenge_," I finish huffily, folding my arms and slouching. Bruce smothers a laugh and tries to look reproachful.

"Now, Harriet, I've already told you–– Alfred has entirely forgiven you for breaking the Ming vase." I raise an incredulous eyebrow–– or, rather, an eyebrow incredulously (heh heh). "No, really, he's not one to hold a grudge."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically, eyes like slits, "this torture device disguised as an item of clothing was clearly purchased out of great love and affection for yours truly. Bruce, you haven't seen the resentment in his eyes whenever they pass over that coffee table–– and he isn't planning on replacing the vase, either. He's going to keep that table empty of flowers for as long as I can visit–– for as long as he can guilt trip me about breaking the damn thing. Honestly, I'm just happy he didn't slay me the moment we walked in the door that Sunday! I can only suppose that it's because he has qualms about killing animals in pain or something, because I'm telling you _right now_–– Alfred doesn't just keep grudges. He _breeds_ them."

Bruce just laughs at me, patting the lace on the top of my head patronizingly. Oh yes, ha ha ha, let's all laugh at the girl who can't punch with her good arm because it's in a _sling_. Rich bastard. Rich, beautiful, flippant, understanding, charming playboy bastard. He flashes his customary charismatic grin. I scowl in return, refusing to let myself be charmed out of my angry mood. I need my angry mood right now. I'm going into battle with the gnats, mosquitoes, and gadflies of the human world: reporters. Which really isn't saying much for myself, but is true nonetheless. They've all gathered here to grill me on the events of that Sunday–– most importantly, what happened in the warehouse.

I totter up to the podium in my idiotic high-heel boots, knowing that I look like a dominatrix from the Edwardian era–– Eliza Doolittle meets the red light area. Not really the metamorphosing guttersnipe I'd envisioned myself as, but then again, I still didn't have Leslie Howard by my side. Just one seething English butler.

There is a flurry of flashing lights and a cacophony of clicking as I take my place behind the stand, wondering if it's too late to reconsider answering these questions without Dent's help. He was afraid (though he never said so out loud, and never _would_, the political fox) that I'm going say something idiotic to those people, something that could place me in jeopardy. And staring up at their hungry expressions, I seriously begin wondering if I won't.

"Miss Vince! Miss Vince!" A chirpy young man, obviously new, raises his hand. I try not to smile at this childish instinct and nod for him to begin. "In your official debriefing, you said that in order to get away from the Joker's henchmen, who were about to attack you, you set fire to the ring of petroleum that had been originally drawn to kill you." I shake my head slightly.

"Not kill. Threaten me into a corner where I would have to beg for their mercy, for him to spare me." The kid nods a little more solemnly, but continues his eager beaver questioning.

"Alright, but if this is true, how do you know they escaped?" I blink. What if they hadn't escaped––?

"I'd say it's a lovely piece of irony, kid," I say, wryly. The majority of the reporters chuckle, but a couple frown, and I think I see Dent facepalm in my peripheral vision. "But it's highly unlikely, seeing as they had originally planned for the ring to catch on fire––"

"But I thought you said that they were only threatening you." I frown at the woman who spoke.

"That doesn't mean they didn't consider that it would happen. It was real petrol, after all, and I'm sure the Joker wouldn't have minded it catching flame. So I'm sure they came prepared."

"But were they prepared for you to attack them?" I force myself not to roll my eyes and make a snarky comment about the essence of irony.

"Well, no."

"So, in their surprise, could they have been killed?" I stare, long and hard, at this young guy in front of me. Why was the little voyeur so excited by the idea of death? And then I remember. The Joker hasn't shown himself for an entire week and a half, which is a very long time for him to stay silent. It's thrown the GPD into alternating fits of apprehension and optimism, and apparently this kid is an optimist. I sigh.

"Sir, I wish could be certain. I wish I could tell you one way or another, whether he lived. But at the time, I was not considering such things. I was more worried about the boy tied to the monorail system." There are chuckles again, but the guy keeps dogging me. He must be hungry or something, because he's obviously trying to make a front-page story out of a done deal.

"But if it's true–– if we assume that he's been killed–– then doesn't that make you his murderer?"

Time freezes.

Then everyone starts shouting.


	10. I Can't Decide

_Oh I could throw you in the lake_

_Or feed you poisoned birthday cake _

_I wont deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone _

_Oh I could bury you alive _

_But you might crawl out with a knife _

_And kill me when I'm sleeping _

_That's why:_

_I can't decide_

_Whether you should live or die_

_Oh, you'll probably go to heaven_

_Please don't hang your head and cry_

_No wonder why_

_My heart feels dead inside_

_It's cold and hard and petrified_

_Lock the doors and close the blinds_

_We're going for a ride_

-- Scissor Sisters, "I Can't Decide"

Four days and five interviews later, I'm staring at the well-done remains of two clowns that have been found in a smoldering warehouse with its back half blown apart. One has a knife, the other a chain, and the police suspect that these two were just a little too close to the oil when I threw my burning fuses. I myself can find no other reason for it, unless the Joker pushed them in–– but what evidence do I have of that? Everything else burned to a crisp, including the truck, which obviously caused the explosion that blew the back wall off. Does this mean that the Joker is dead? Does that make my action one of manslaughter, accidental homicide––?

The newspapers heralding the Joker's disappearance as a symbol of what an ordinary person's bravery can do are silent.

I'm being called a Batman follower, a sign of the spread of vigilantism–– some are even saying that Batman appearing just as I jumped with the boy could be no coincidence, and that he and I had laid some sort of trap for Joker. Their corroborative evidence is one: the razor blade pendent with the icon cut out of it, which, for Bruce's sake, I'm not giving any explanation for; and two: my apparent intimacy with Batman, as captured when I leaned in to tell him my theory about the Joker's gadget envy. Farfetched, of course, but it garnered me the new suspicion of premeditated, malicious crime.

It doesn't help that the only other witnesses are missing and presumed dead, not to mention being my enemies and supposed victims.

But I can't help feeling rather blasé about it. "This turn of events really doesn't surprise me," I tell Bruce. "I guess I feel that no matter what I do, my encounter with the Joker will find a way of offing me. Like Oedipus having to face his fate no matter how he tried to escape it–– though I doubt I'll be killing my dad and sleeping with my mother." I pull a face and Bruce laughs, but follows this with a bear hug that lasts, without interruption, for twenty minutes.

The tabloids are calling us "lovers" and me, the "future Mrs. Wayne," though they all are at a lost to know _why._ I do not suit his known tastes at all, and have such a lack of poise and femininity (see: klutziness and habit of belching like a man in public) that they are only fain to recognize me as his prospective wife by my constant presence in his penthouse. But I know they have nothing to worry about. It is not I who receives his love, but a woman very previously engaged: Rachel Dawes, his beautiful childhood friend, Harvey Dent's girlfriend. I see it in the wistful way he looks at her, his pointed introduction of me to her, his antagonism towards Dent. He loves her in a way that is painful to watch, and even more painful not to know.

Everything is hollow nowadays.

Harvey Dent. Harvey, Harvey, Harvey. Now there is a man who will never cease to amaze me.

When I return to the penthouse on Sunday night, spent from a day of identifying clown corpses, reporting, and avoiding others' pity, I want nothing but to sleep–– my skull feels like lead. But as the elevator doors open, I have a dress box and a pair of shoes thrust in my face. "Wha––?"

"Get dressed, Harry, you have a fundraiser to go to!" It's Mr. Dent himself, along with Bruce, who looks fairly disgruntled. I wonder what it means to be unfairly gruntled? I look the grinning DA in the eye and purposefully drop the clothing at his shiny-shoed feet, walking away before he can say, "Now, don't be like that–– you have a party to go to!"

"Yeah, and it's in my bed." I pause, turn around, and start grinning at their confusion. "Not like that." Bruce chortles and throws me an energy drink. I roll my eyes. "Thanks a lot, Bruce. Now I'll go to the party and be a _hyperactive_ happy drunk!" I stand there for a second, staring around at their expectant expressions. Finally I sigh and jerk the dress box out of Dent's hands. He crows like a little boy and pushes me into the master bedroom. I trip, falling onto the bed and he slams the door behind me. "Can't I just wear a tuxedo or something?" I yell at the locked door. "_A_ _sports jacket and trousers?_"

"No!" He yells back, and I hear them both laugh. They only ally when they torment me, the bastards.

Finally, after being all fixed up by Alfred, who has an odd ––shall I say _suspicious_––knowledge of make-up and hairstyling, I step out of Bruce's oak bedroom, heels sinking right into the carpet and wobbling slightly. "Why must you do this to me, Harvey Dent? I look like a goddamn diva!" The two of them turn around from their place at the kitchen counter and their mouths drop open. I roll my eyes, pose and say, "See? I look like a back-up singer for–– for_ Diana Ross_. I mean, like––" I start doing the dance from Dreamgirls. "_'We're your dreamgirls / __Boys, we'll make ya happy, yeah-yeah-yeah! / We're your dreamgirls /Boys, we'll always care!'_" Someone–– I suspect it's Bruce–– lobs an apple at my head. It misses by an inch, hitting the wall and splattering a little, to Alfred's pursed-mouth displeasure.

"Save it for the party!" Bruce shouts happily and grabs the keys to the Lamborghini, ignoring the withering look I'm shooting his way. "Let's head out!" And he dances by in _his_ black sports jacket, letting my look burn a hole in the wall. I huff a little, picking up my bag, only to feel a hand catch my elbow.

"Hey." It's Dent. He smiles–– genuinely, I think. "You look beautiful." I blush fiercely, feeling the heat spreading through my body like wildfire.

"T-thank you," I stammer, shocked. His smiles widens, dimpling his cheeks.

"Bruce Wayne is a lucky bastard, is all I can say." Now I'm utterly bewildered. What's going _on_ here?

"Wh-what?"

"Well, aren't you engaged?" I turn an even deeper crimson and shake my head, stammering in the negative and starting to worry that Dent's new elastic mouth will suddenly snap. "Stupid tabloids, eh?" He chortles and offers me his arm, and, seriously confused and wondering anxiously if Harvey Dent is abusing his happy meds, I accept it.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

We finally arrive at Wayne Tower, where, by the station that so recently became the epicenter of all my worst fears, a large banner hangs. It says, in giant gold letters, SAVE HARRIET VINCE! I glare at Harvey and Bruce, who are grinning like hyenas. "What am I, an endangered species?" Bruce nods solemnly, clasping me to his side.

"A precious specimen of _journalist minimus_, a rare and lovely creature that is only found on the east coast of North America." I grin up him, bad humor quickly dissolving. How could anyone hate this guy? "She resides in shark-infested swamps––"

"Shark-infested swamps?" I laugh, and snort. He continues, unabashed.

"––Spreading light, beauty, and the essence of humor––"

"And mooching off of goldfish." He looks down at me, shocked. I edit. "_Big_ goldfish. Who like to squander their shiny scales on little journalists." I look around at all the big names and wealthy investors gathered to help my plight. "Honestly, you guys, you shouldn't do this! You shouldn't associate yourselves with me–– especially you, Harvey." He looks pleasantly surprised that I'm calling him by his first name, but still waves off my concerns.

"Hush. You should've heard what we had planned!"

"Harriet!" I am distracted by a little boy in a white tuxedo who runs up to hug my midriff. I smile down at him, recognizing little Johnny.

"Hello! How are you, Jon?" He beams up at me and nods his good health, giving my stomach a squeeze and running off again to see his parents, who wave and smile. Good people on the whole, do their best, you know. I return to my more urgent conversation with Harvey.

"Your original plan–– what was it?"

"To buy ourselves places on your jury!" I facepalm, not wanting to look at their irritating, shiny enamel any longer.

"That's illegal, isn't it?"

"Yes!" I glare at Harvey, who looks like he has a Botox injection. "Which is why I'm going to be defending you instead!" I groan. This is hopeless. He's going to ruin his reputation by defending a clearly guilty murderer, for no other reason than the fact that she's his friend. I lead him away by the arm, visibly distraught, and when we finally halt by the entrance, he's become serious enough to listen to me. I take a deep breath, fidgeting like an unhappy child.

"Look–– look, you just can't do this. You're Gotham's _White Knight_, for God's sake, you can't just throw away all those peoples' hopes on a bad pony! Harvey, _I _am a bad pony, and no one should bet on me! Ever! I am pursued by bad luck like a piece of meat is pursued by flies! It will consume me, and so will my big fat mouth, because, you see, here I go again talking nonstop because–– because _you_ Harvey Dent–– you––I _do_ believe in you, Harvey, a _lot_ more than I believe in myself on any level, and if we're fighting for anything here its for your success as the _city's_ protector! Not mine!" I stop, heaving slightly. Harvey looks taken aback. I nod firmly. "And that's final. No more protecting me from my own actions." I turn to go, when, yet again, I feel his hand upon my arm.

"Harriet." I around curtly, then stop. The atmosphere's suddenly changed. I'm staring into a pair of brown eyes full of indescribable anguish, along something else–– something that scares me. His voice is hoarse, shaking. "I can't lose you. Especially not to this." I'm about to answer frantically, terrified out of my wits, when I hear, in the distance, Bruce calling me to the microphone for a speech. Hardly knowing what I'm doing, I wrench my arm from his grasp and, stagger, in a haze, to the stage. I'm exhausted and lovesick and in pain–– I shouldn't have to be dealing with what appears to be the disintegration of Harvey Dent's mental health.

I trip a little on my way up the stairs and, saying something like "Oh––!" flail my arms wildly. The entire crowd gasps. I balance myself. The crowd applauds. I then walk up the remaining stairs, stumble on a loose wire, and do a faceplant. The crowd "ooohs!" sympathetically and Bruce helps me up. The crowd applauds. Moving more carefully, I make it to the microphone, and attempt to adjust the mouthpiece to my pathetic height. It sinks. I raise it a little higher than my mouth. It sinks. I look around at Bruce, who is trying not to laugh, and raise it above my head. It stays. The entire audience laughs, and I roll my eyes and walk out from behind the podium. "Thank you, that was the, um, physical comedy portion of our show––" The crowd applauds. This is almost farcical. "And now for something, um, completely different. They laugh, and I'm about to begin apologizing for the idiotic party when I hear it.

By the entrance.

The clapping of a lone man.

He's leaning on the pillars of the station room, applause slow, sinister. "_Wel-ll,_ Miss Vince, I wouldn't go _that_ far." The room is held perfectly silent and still, fear scrawled across every face. He lopes forward, casually grabbing a drink from a waiter, still not taking those terrifying eyes off of my face. "You certainly exceeded my, ah, ex-pec_ta_tions." That sinister, high-pitched drawl crawls over my skin. "And I don't mean in terms of the _boy_–– no, I always knew you were going to save _him_, he he he! No… _no_… I mean, as in your clever little, ah, _fire_ escape!" The Joker purrs, slowly moving forward into the light, letting it slide over his ravaged features. "Such _ingenuity_–– such a deadly streak–– in one so young and––" he giggles wildly––"and _beautiful_. Makes me _s-s-shiver!_" He cackles, running his tongue around the circuit of his blood-red mouth. I see his eyes rake my body and flush as he bares his yellowing teeth in a perverse grin. "I really can't _bear_ to part with you!" As he announces this, he pulls out a gun, and, without so much as a glance, lifts it straight out and points it at Jonathon Tambling, who cowers at his mother's side.

"No!" I scream, jolting forward. "You said you'd leave him if I saved him! You said you'd leave us! Those were your terms!" Horrified, I see him cock the weapon, shrugging.

"Who said that you only had to save him from the _train?_" The Joker pulls the trigger, and the entire room erupts.


	11. Panic

**Author's Note **(READ DAMMIT): I'm sorry this took me so long to write! Another chapter's already in the making–– I'm having such a hard time trying to decide whether to destroy Harriet's sanity. It seems like such a waste of good character! But it's going to happen. Oh yes. Cackles evilly

_Panic! When in danger or in doubt,_

_Run in circles, scream and shout!_

_Ahhhhh!_

-- Tom Servo, "Panic"

Harvey Dent. Harvey, Harvey, Harvey. Now there is a man who has _huevos_.

Yes, the Joker has taken direct aim at little Johnny's forehead with an extremely large gun. Yes, everyone else is frozen with terror, myself included. But Harvey Dent has the guts to take a bullet to the gullet. Well, not really, it hits just under his collarbone, but it's pretty damn impressive nonetheless. I think people would have applauded if they weren't panicking, running around like roadrunners on crack. I know _I_ would have cheered if I weren't preoccupied with shrieking at all the blood spurting out of the DA's body. Jon and his parents run for the entrance, and I scream after them, urging them on at the top of my lungs, jumping off the stage and running to Harvey's side. Then two loud _bangs_ and a pair of screams comes echoing down the hallway.

I freeze. Suddenly, I'm climbing again, and I can see the corpses of policemen flying past me. _How many dead? _I wonder, ice flowing through my veins. _How many dead?_

"Got the parents, boss, but the kid's quicker than a gunshot." I snap back into reality, staring down at the gushing wound in Harvey's chest. It looks like its _boiling_, I think numbly, stomach churning, and I press my hands upon it because a) Every survival manual/class I've ever taken has said that this helps in some way, and because b) I _really_ don't want to see it. _How many dead? How many dead?_ It runs through my head like a nervous, frantic loop, a monks' chant gone horribly wrong.

A large, spider-like hand crushes my shoulder and, crying in pain, I am dragged upright, spun around, and pressed far to intimately against Mr. Joker's wiry figure. "Sooo, _Harriet…_ I heard you, ah, learned to _ball-room _dance_,_ hmmm?" I nod, biting my lip, trying to keep my terrified prattling inside my head. "It's a real _shame_, then, that you're partner has left the building–– I was looking forward to watching you _tango,_ hee hee hee!" Bruce. _Bruce._ I twist around in the Joker's arms, and he lets me, keeping my back pressed against his chest, our hands still locked together. "Oh, don't worry," he hisses in my ear, bright red lips pulled back from the tips of his yellowed teeth. "I didn't do anything to him. He's just a very, ah, _sensible_ man."

I blanch. Billionaire Bruce Wayne, playboy extraordinaire, had just cancelled my life like a bad deal. Sure, he would protect me from everyone, everything–– as long as it was within his penthouse, the safest place in Gotham. He was probably speeding there right now in shiny Lamborghini, letting Harvey–– poor Harvey! –– take the bullet. Not mention everyone else. Not to mention me. I feel the blood draining from my face, nauseated by the idea that I never saw what a coward he truly was. Enraged that I had almost been tricked into loving him.

The Joker spins me back around, a sadistic glimmer in his eye, yellow smile curling on his face. There is a pause. Mustering my strength, I smile at him blandly. He groans, pulling me close enough that I cannot escape his smell of face-paint, gunpowder, and dried blood. "Harriet, _Harriet!_ You dis-ap_point_ me." I feel, with a thrill of horror, cold lips at the base of my neck, nipping me lightly. I gasp just slightly, revulsion pulsing through my veins and heat rising in my cheeks. "No–– anger? Not even your usual _self-deprecation?_ You can't _fool_ the jester, Harriet, no…There's a–– a _fuse_ burning in that mind of yours, and if you're not, ah, caaare-_ful_, girly, it's going to blow you apart."

"I bet you'd _love_ that," I mutter, still keeping my blasé grin fixed upon my face, even while my body flushes traitorously. The monster in the make-up stares at me then grabs my cheeks with rough fingers and shakes my head violently, giggling maniacally.

"No, no, _no!_ _Harriet_, you've got it all _back-_wards! I can't get _enough_ of you, Miss Vince––what would I do without such a _playmate!_" He purrs, flicking his tongue along my jaw line. My entire body flushes, mortified. I feel dizzy–– falling, and policemen plummet past me, screaming hollowly _how many dead?_ Suddenly, I am claustrophobic, shoving myself from my enemy, eyes wild.

"Don't _touch_ me!" I hiss, hands clenched so tight that my fingernails cut into my palms. "Don't you ever–– _ever_ touch me _again!_" The deranged laughter fills my mind, flooding it with horrible memories.

"Why does it take such an _effort_ on my part to make you do what you're born for?" The Joker growls, pushing back his lank, stringy hair, scars twitching slightly. "Why do you _hide_ this side of you, hmmm? Are you afraid of having to face the darkness alone?" His smile stretches to its breaking point. "Why do _you_ put on your happy face?"

"Maybe I want to see if I can out-smile the Joker," I growl, and a second later, am slammed bodily against a wall. Ow. Fuck, that was a stupid thing to say. I peer up as the maniac towering over me scowls through his carved-out smile.

"Try again, little girl. I know you're not as sane as you want to believe–– I _know_ about your nightmares. The ones you deny during the day–– hide during the night." He leans over me, whispering into my ear, closing his eyes, making them look like dark, hollow sockets. "What do you replay in those moments of terror? _Death? Murder?_"

The dreams of fire. Of pain. The sounds of hissing fuses and humming train lines, of metal bursting into flame boiling into an ocean of blood. A shadow train bearing down upon the sun. The cold white faces of dead policemen falling past me, eyes huge and hands clawing at themselves, at the air, as if the sky held the essence of life–– as if they were trying to return their blood to their bodies. And then I will be falling, holding onto the only person I can save, tears and blood flying out of me, quick as running water.

My eyes fly open, breath catching like a fishhook in my throat.

He is close–– far too close–– and I punch him in the gut, as hard as I can, snapping, "Yes, and it's called Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I'd like to note now that people suffering its effects are easily provoked to violence. _So_, Joker man, you want to _back_ the _fuck_ away from me. You want to leave me in relative peace and quiet for a _very_ long time, because I'm telling you _right now_ that there is nothing more that inflames a PTS patient like a freaky-ass clown skipping all over their line of vision. And I do not want to hurt you–– I can't want that." He cackles, unbending himself.

"Perhaps. But _I_ do. I _covet_ it." I cock an eyebrow, forcing joyous images of drawing and quartering the (shudder) _clown_ out of my mind.

"Sado-masochism? Well, bring on the whips and chains!" I say sarcastically. "I regret that I didn't pack my leather miniskirt ensemble, but I can borrow some cuffs when the police arrive." The Joker licks his lips again, inhaling deeply and grinning. I desperately want to ask if he thinks I've cooked long enough, but right now is really not the time.

"Violence really brings out the best in you, Harriet. Where do you hide this _wonderful_ facet of your personality?" The Joker giggles softly, clumsily stroking my hair. I have to forcibly keep myself from shuddering.

"In spare pockets?" He throws his head back, cackling.

"Oh-oh-oh. Harriet, you are really a jewel." I feel cold leather lightly trace the length of my spine, and unconsciously arch backwards. He purrs into my ear. "Mmmm… this side of you is so _delectably_ erotic."

"Violence is inherent to sex, sir," I quip, blush returning with indecent enthusiasm. "Read _A Clockwork Orange_." He laughs at my reaction, and, to my surprise, steps back and tosses me a pistol. I stare down at it, then back up to the grinning fool in front of me. "A _gun?_ Isn't that a bit heavy-handed and–– _short-lived?_" I smirk to myself, turning away from him. "No pun intended."

"_Wel-l_, it all depends on where you _shoot_, really. But––I know what you mean: a gun doesn't give you the chance to savor all the, ah, the _little emotions._ Take, for instance, Harvey Dent–– if he hadn't intervened in little Johnny's execution, I would really have preferred to use a _knife––_"

I snap.

_BANG!_ The Joker's knee explodes, and he screams in an awful mix of anguish and ecstasy, collapsing into a hysterically cackling mess. I stare down at him calmly, examining the barrel of my gun. "You were right. It's all about _where_ you shoot."


	12. Happy Happy Joy Joy

**Author's Note** (READ DAMMIT)**: **Yes, I know, it has been nearly a week since I last posted, I'm sorry! But I had to be social and not shut myself up in my house with my computer like a recluse, and now you have the first part in the gratuitous disintegration of Harriet Vince's mind. Have fun!

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

_I don't think you're happy enough!_

_That's right–– I'm gonna _teach _you to be happy!_

_I'll teach your grandmother to suck eggs! _

_Now boys and girls_

_Let's try it––_

_AGAIN!_

-- Stinky Wizzle-teats, "Happy Happy Joy Joy"

Everything is hollow nowadays.

Without pausing to even breathe, I turn and attempt to run to Harvey's side, screaming his name. Almost instantly, a man the size and appearance of a mountain armed with a gun much like a hand cannon impedes my passage. I gulp. I always overestimate my height and strength in these situations. I can hear Harvey whimper in the distance, calling my name in anguished tones, and my heart lurches. "I'll be right there, Harvey, you'll be fine! Okay? Just–– stay calm!" I turn around to look at the few rich partygoers who have not managed to escape, realizing with horror that unless something is done quickly, we'll probably all be massacred. And with that in mind, I spin back around using what little knowledge I have of fighting plus all of my pathetic body weight to shove the thug's nose into his skull. His head snaps back, and I try to ignore the sickening warm liquid I feel upon my palm. I grab his weapon, lift it with both arms, and instantly stagger. Holy fuck is this thing made of _lead?_ Again, note to self, overestimating my strength to weight ratio puts person into a compromising position. But, I think, as I blow a hole in the wall just above another henchman's head, stumbling backwards with the force and knocking him unconscious, sometimes the weapon is compensation all by itself.

The room is blown apart as the "guards" are knocked out either with falling plaster or, if they get close enough, the hefty body of my hand cannon. Still shooting over my shoulder, I kneel beside Harvey, heart pounding in my throat. "Harvey? Harvey, we have to go!" He looks wan, skin sallow and eyes dim, and although he's been pressing his palms to his bullet wound, I can see that at least a liter of his blood has pooled around his weak body. I reel, guilt for my negligence inflaming every nerve ending, making every movement bring tears to my eyes. "Oh god, Harvey. Oh god, please––" I spin around and, blood boiling within my veins, point the barrel of my hand cannon at the nearest clown, vision partially obscured with hot tears. "Put your fucking weapons down!" I shriek, shooting just above the poor guy's head. "Look you bastards, I just shot your boss in the kneecap! You think I'm going to save my best behavior for the scum toting the guns? Put down the _fucking_ weapons, or my requests will become _much_ less polite."

To my shock and rapture, I hear the clatter of weapons upon tile. I look around, eyes drying as I see that of the six clowns that had accompanied the Joker, only half were standing, and every one of them had surrendered. I nod firmly, and then glance to the group of richly dressed couples that stand quivering in a dark corner of the train station. I gasp and begin grinning––a seventh clown lays unconscious at their feet, apparently having been bludgeoned with the crockery they are clenching. "Well done," I laugh, and then instantly become solemn as I point behind myself. "Will you carry our friend out? Our original companions thought fit to abandon him." I shake off the horrible cold weight of betrayal settling in the pit of my stomach, choosing to smile at my gang of patrons, businessmen, and lawyers as they rush to lift Harvey's feeble frame. He stirs a little as they move him, eyes shifting slowly to meet mine. In their warm dark depths, I see a tiny spark of hope, closely followed by an anxious desperation–– the same desperation that makes him remove a fist from his wound and clutch for my hand.

"Come." I feel water fill my eyes, and I blink furiously, pressing Harvey's bloodied fingers to my lips.

"I'll be right behind you, Harvey–– I'll be watching your back." I lift my giant weapon to my shoulder, smiling a little. "I will _never_ abandon you. Ever." With that, I run back through the terminal, old wounds reopening on the soles of my bare feet, leaving bloody footprints. I force myself to be calm as I approach the wounded monster on the stage, an odd sensation of guilt surging through my body. Sure, I had shot him to end his torment, but passion was no excuse for the cruelty I had demonstrated. I flinch, wondering if perhaps I was not, as the Joker said, entirely irreprehensible. Trembling with dread and self-loathing, I quietly climb the stairs, wincing as the sounds of soft moaning, combined with breathy giggles, emanate somewhere above his jackknifed body. "Joker?" I call softly, willing myself not to panic. The moaning stops, and the laughter redoubles, sounding crazed, excited even. Ignoring this, I crouch besides his body and pry his hands away from the gaping wound in his knee.

"Do you really want to know why I keep on smiling?" My mind is numb again, suddenly and inexplicably blank as I smell the blood and gunpowder. The Joker lifts his head, and his scarred face is twisted with sick joy and sheer agony. Hesitating, I delicately touch the edge of the wound like a curious child. He moans, but it almost sounds sensual, and his grin stretches even wider. Honestly? I roll my eyes, settling back on my haunches and tearing the hem of my dress into glittery strips. "I read a story–– a memoir––by a man who survived the Vietnam War." I tie the pieces of cloth around his bloody knee securely, fashioning what I hope will serve as a makeshift bandage. "One of his friends, Curt Lemon, stepped upon a booby-trapped artillery round and was blown to pieces. They were sent to collect his body parts, which had been strewn about, and as they threw chunks from a tree, they began singing 'lemon tree very pretty,' just so that they could keep themselves laughing." I pause, looking deep into the Joker's black irises. "Do you understand, Joker? I'm different from you. I–– I _don't want to be like you._"

"Harriet!" I hear Harvey scream, and even as I turn to look him, I feel twenty tons of excruciating pain explode in my right side. I stare down at my body––it's like an entire half has burst open, fast-motion blossoming into a beautiful crimson tropical flower. It's wide, warm petals taper and trickle down my body. I gently graze their fluid surface with my fingertips, breathing a sigh of awed astonishment, before spiraling to the floor like a cut mannequin, darkness engulfing me.

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The nightmares are back.

The nightmares that I denied during the daylight, hid during the night. The gruesome dreams that I deliberately forgot, consciously forced to the back of my mind, where they enhanced every click, hiss, and hum, every backfiring car and every chiming clock. And at night, they would return, more dreadful than before. I would start awake, biting my wrist to stop myself from crying out–– Alfred and Bruce couldn't know. They couldn't.

Thick cold fogs of terrible memories and the heavy weight of fear deep within me, weighing me down even as I try to run from it. Running from a train made of shadows, now driven by two charred clowns, their smiles welded to their flesh, and the hum of the track becomes the hiss of the fuse. And the shadows become flame, which boils into blood, pouring out of the gaping hole in Harvey's chest. I am swept away by the black-red tide, screaming as–– I am falling backwards, burning with rage, tears flowing out of me like inverted tap water, watching the faces of dying policemen as they plummet past me, hands clawing at the air, at their chests, trying to return their blood to their bodies. And the person I clutch with bloodstained paws is faceless, and cold, _too cold––_

I jolt awake, sitting straight up and biting down on my wrist to stop myself from screaming. Instantly, a blinding light disorients me. I blink, twisting away from it, trying to block the sounds of my nightmare train from overtaking my sense of sound. My entire body feels numb, and my midriff is tightly wrapped in gauze. Morphine. Fun. I shield my eyes, definitely woozy. "Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?" The light twists a little away from me, and again I see a faint red light.

It's that damn camera again. Honestly, how can you teach a creep not to make voyeuristic home videos? Other than beating him to a pulp. And that obnoxious, petrifying voice ringing in the empty room. "Hello, Har-ri-_et_–– do you know where you _are_?" I glare at the camera.

"How about you turn on the lights and let me find out?" He laughs hysterically, and I hear a horrible note of triumph in his cackling.

"No no no, _girly_, I can't do _that!_ Because every time I turn on the _lights_, you manage to get a-_way_, and I have to start this whole–– this whole _pro_cess over again. It's not that I wouldn't be able to find you–– I've been watching you from the very beginning." My eyes widen. "How else would I know that you had left that fort of a penthouse last Sunday? It wasn't sweet co-_in_cidence that I met you at the restaurant." I would facepalm if my hands weren't tied behind my back. Honestly, a stalker clown? Am I still dreaming? All my phobias have converged upon me in one month. It's like someone blew off the door on my anxiety closet–– and I think I know who. My glaring redoubles in fury and intensity, and the Joker cackles even more wildly. "I traced you from the moment you sat down to dinner with Wayne!" I gasp.

"Wait, were you that guy who got out of the car and _laughed_ at me when I walked into the pole?" Facepalm. I want to facepalm so badly. "Jerk."

"You're so eloquent when you're angry, Har-ri-_et_," the Joker calls out in a singsong voice. "Shall I give you a gun and let it do the talking, hmmm?" I lurch guiltily, and then scowl into the camera.

"You hurt my friends." He giggles, and the lights come on. Someone unties one of my hands, and I feel a cool fingertip lightly run along my spine.

"Oh, Harriet, your ideas of nobility, decency, loyalty–– they're so _old-fashioned._ You and your little, ah, com-_pa_­triots are playing games of chess, complete with bishops, knights–– queens." I roll my eyes as he lopes into my line of vision, standing besides the camera.

"And you're more of a poker player. I know all that!" I'm tired of this game–– tired of the Joker's stupid mind tricks. I feel a slow epiphany flood my brain with beautiful white light, and I grin. "Look, Joker, I know I'm a freak! I know that I'm a weird mix of species that should never _ever_ work, that I've got electricity in my head and poison up my sleeve. But you know what? That's just who I am. Just like you're––uh, whoever you actually are. Someone who's gonna end up in Arkham."

"I'm not crazy." He pauses, shifting his weight and licking his lips. I stare at him. "I'm no-_t_." His scars twitch with indignation. There's a long silence, in which I am dumbfounded. And then––I can't help it–– I start cracking up. This is a total non sequitur, even for wacky old me. The Joker is startled. "What's so funny?"

"W-what's so _funny?_ Is this the _Joker_ I hear? Gotham's flipped topsy-turvy! The Batman is laughing and the Joker's scowling! And me? Oh, you _hypocrite!_" I throw back my head dramatically and wham it against the wall. "Ow!" I yell, and then start laughing even harder, wheezing even. "_W_ow! I never thought I'd hear the guy trying to drive _me_ insane would be in such denial about his own imbalanced mental health! No, don't take offense!" I clamp a hand to my mouth, giggling even harder at his bewilderment. "I have this theory–– wait, wait for it–– that you're not–– _crazy,_ no! No, your world just has a _lot_ more blood and gunpowder in it!" I wave my hand at his face, still chortling. "And make-up. Has anyone told you that you look like a drag queen on crack? I won't!"

I lean back in my chair, still cracking up. "Jesus," I giggle, "at this rate, _I'll_ end up in Arkham! Maybe I'm bipolar. Maybe you're making me bipolar. Good job!" I can't stop smiling. "Yes sir, you and I and Battyman are all going to be rooming together at the Arkham School for deranged boys and girls, where the uniform is a pretty white suit that lets you hug yourself forever!"

Man, when I start, I just can't stop, I think, wheezing, hands waving like paddles in front of my face. The Joker finally bursts out laughing, bemused, and I waggle my finger at him admonishingly. "See, Joker, you cheated and picked an _easy_ target–– I'm already half-unhinged and flighty, and never take anything seriously. That, coupled with extreme phobias and recent trauma, sets me up as candidate number _uno_ for Miss Paranoid Schizophrenia all on my lonesome!" I strike a pose––covering my face with my free hand and pretending to scream. His cackling redoubles, and I relax, letting my hands drop and furrowing my brow. "Though paranoia doesn't really suit me. How about sardonic schizophrenia? Bizarre? Psychedelic?"

"You see, Harriet, this is why you representing the, ah, 'ordinary' people of Gotham is com_plete-_ly absurd," the Joker says, sniggering at my babblings. "Do you understand now? –– We're two of a kind, you and I." I waggle my finger, standing up and dragging the chair behind me.

"No, see, unless I'm, ah, _provoked,_" I say, mocking his mannerisms, "I don't act on my twisted thoughts. I'll give you that I have a _lot_ of 'em, but I'm not the sick fuck that pulls them off!" I finish airily, wiping my eyes. "Now––" I say, becoming serious, "–– tell me what's running through that twisted mind of yours." He grins, and pretends to simper.

"Oh, Harriet, you know I, ah, _care_ for you, yes?" I roll my eyes, shrugging at the obvious falsehood. "_Wel-l_, your mental health has been under a lot of _strain_ lately, and I wouldn't want you running away from the results. So I'll be playing _therapist_ for you, while you use your investigative talents to track down the e_lu_sive _Bat._" I stare at him. He twirls his harpy between his fingers, whistling a circus tune. "_Yesss_, it's Asylum Safari with the Joker, where we hunt down the most monstrous and frightening animals in the Gotham jungle!" I snort.

"And the tour guide is a ravenous lion? Why do I get the feeling that the tourists will be paying with flesh?"

"Well, I always loved open-face sandwiches!" I snicker, swaying a little and letting the chair fall on its side with a clang.

"Open-face? That's pretty good, Joker–– or was that the pun?" His demented smile disappears. "Oop! I guess that's what _normal_ therapists would call a Freudian slip!" I giggle wildly, suddenly indifferent about whether I live or die. "You see, Mister Joker, I really have lost all sense of self-preservation! You can't play on my cowardice anymore, although I'm sure I still have it in spades. But––" I stare at the camera "–– I can't run away again, can I?"

My breath catches in my throat and my eyes burn, remembering the gunshots echoing from the hallway and the voices of the henchmen––_"Got the parents, boss, but the kid's quicker than a gunshot."_ How long does Jon have to live? What have I done by getting involved in any of this? I swallow, hard. "If I run away again," I continue quietly, "more people will die." I stare at the hunched figure before me, dressed in his customary purple, pants leg now decorated with a large bandage wrapped tightly around his knee. It is white gauze, but a large crimson stain pools in the center, making all the guilt and self-loathing come back with a rush. He sees me staring, and a large, yellow-toothed grin splits his face. "But I can't betray Batman. He is my savior, my protector–– and it would be a mark of highest ingratitude for me to condemn him to your hands." The Joker licks his lips and closes his eyes slowly, as if savoring my words.

"You won't change your mind?"

"No."

"Then," he says, giggling menacingly, "I'll have to do it for you."


	13. Comedy Tonight

Something familiar,

_Something familiar,_

_Something peculiar,_

_Something for everyone:_

_A comedy tonight!_

_Something appealing,_

_Something appalling,_

_Something for everyone:_

_A comedy tonight!_

_Nothing with kings, nothing with crowns;_

_Bring on the lovers, liars and clowns!_

_Old situations,_

_New complications,_

_Nothing portentous or polite;_

_Tragedy tomorrow,_

_Comedy tonight!_

–– A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, "Comedy Tonight"

Isn't this lovely.

I bang on my double-bolted door. "Hey, Joker. Hey." A small window opens in the door, and I find myself glaring into the pits given the misnomer eyes.

"What's wrong, Har-ri-_et?_"

"What's _wrong_ is that a would-be child murderer has imprisoned me in a room that looks like _Pee-Wee's Playhouse._" No, seriously. The walls are a gay (happy, not peculiar) shade of yellow and the ceiling is a baby blue with–– good _god_–– puffy white clouds. The carpet is grass green shag, the door bright purple, wacky, and zig-zaggy, and there's a half a gold Rolls Royce smashed through the wall. The armchairs are bright-hued, overstuffed, and some disturbed person has attached large googly eyes to their backs. I am about to have a very loud conniption fit.

"And what have you given me to wear? This thing is…" I trail off, wrinkling my nose in distaste at the short dress and ankle-length trench coat hanging in the bright orange closet. I have the horrible feeling that the coat is _his_, and ignore it, tossing the tiny slip of a dress at the cell door. "This is _small_ and _absurd._" I pause. "And if you say anything about clothes making the woman, I will hurt you. And what the hell_––_" I nudge a large (_shudder_) clown doll with my smallest toe "––is this? I found it in my bed and only refrained from disemboweling it for fear of setting off some explosive."

There is a burst of hysterical laughter, and with a grinding and clanking, the door unlocks. I scoot up against the far wall, trying as hard as I can to put distance between me and the madman making his entrance. The Joker strides in still cackling, and attempts to pull me to his side as he picks up the abused doll, but I bat his hand away, snapping, "No, don't you laugh and grin at me–– you sent me a _clown._"

There is a long silence.

I barely have time to register the fury in the Joker's eyes when a fist connects with my mouth, slamming me into a bedpost. Before I can recover, I feel the back of the Joker's gloved hand make contact with my cheek with undue force, feel the chipped buttons cut open my skin. I gasp a little, gulping down blood as rough gloved hands bruise my upper arms. "You, ah, _talk_ a lot, Har-ri-_et_. And you're rather ungracious to someone who has _very_ _generously_ allowed you to live." I swallow, hard, and snap my mouth shut, sweat beading on my brow. Harry, now is not the time to be a wiseass.

The Joker's grin widens, and with three quick motions, I'm thrown on the bed, crushed beneath his hips with my hands jerked above my head, nearly dislocating my shoulders. Fuck! I think, struggling wildly, panic clouding my mind. I'd better reboot my safety cowardice before I get myself butchered. "Did you _really_ think I liked you well enough not to hurt you? You–– you know me better than that, _giiiir-ly_. You _know_ I eat meat, ah, _rare._" He lowers his gaze to my terrified face, a hungry, greedy delight illuminating his eyes, and his fingers touch my new cuts and bruises delicately, almost–– tenderly? curiously? reverently? "Do you–– do you want to know _why_ you're still alive?" he whispers. I don't move, and see the same fierce anger flood his eyes. The fiend grabs my chin and forces me to nod jerkily, then, leaping up with a flourish, grabs the back of my neck and throws me into the bathroom, where I skid wildly, fall over the edge of the bathtub, and slam my face into the wall. _Ow._

The dress lands ingloriously on my raised rump, and, after a pause, the Joker exits dramatically, slamming the door behind him. Bastard bastard _bastard_. I groan, twisting around and sinking into the tub, hands on my head. If this goes on much longer, I'll be dead on my feet before the Joker gets 'round to _officially _executing me. Already, the brightly hued walls feel like they're closing in on me, compressing me. Damned if you do, damned if you don't–– stay here, suffer; escape, watch others suffer. Stay, become an accomplice in Batman's demise. Leave, become the cause of multiple homicide. _Fuck._

"Har-ri-_et_." I shudder. Fucking _clown._ My mind is dizzy and sick and cold and numb, and I can feel a trickle of blood running like warm molasses from a new wound on my forehead. The eye that made painful touchdown upon the knobbily bedpost is agonizing to move, and my vision is blurry and shaky. I when I look in the mirror, I see that it is not simply bleeding, but completely dark with ruptured blood veins. It sends waves of pain through my mind every time that I blink or even attempt to look around. This is not good. I suddenly remember that when my brother was beaten in the sixth grade, he got a bloody eye. The treatment for it was extensive and required us to check him into an emergency hospital room. My stomach lurches, nauseated by the memory of the black eyeball. No way I'm going to be getting any treatment here–– chances are, before I ever get to a doctor, I'll go blind. I wipe hurriedly at my mouth, praying for it to stop bleeding. I don't want to provoke the psycho clown anymore than I would on a regular basis–– which is enough, of course, to make him kill me.

"I'm coming, Joker–– you just want me to put on the dress?" Despite my efforts, I hear my voice tremble uncontrollably. There is a noticeable pause on the other side of the door and I feel fear clog my lungs like thick cold fog. What have I gotten myself into? I took my life for granted. I took my _death_ for granted. And now I am finally realizing the amount of _pain_ that both can involve. For me to survive, I think, stripping slowly, every movement pure anguish, I'll have to be a lot stronger, if not smarter.

I cannot refrain, however, from sniggering at the ridiculous picture I make: one black-eyed girl with a slimy, unkempt look about her–– Lord knows how long I was out before my PTS nightmares jolted me awake–– wearing yet _another_ glittery dress, now black with red diamond patterns. I look like one of Gunther's Sunshine Girls, but without the complementary bisexual female companions. Mustering all of my most idiotic courage, I saunter (i.e. stagger) into the adjoining room, take a deep breath, and strut proudly (i.e. totter pathetically) past the Joker's scowling face to subside into a large armchair.

"I look like a Vegas waitress/crack whore, and unless that's a new trend, honey, I don't think your public relations cred is going to rise any. Unless you're trading up the killer laughs for a career as master pimp." My hand waves a little vaguely in front of my battered visage as I attempt to appear blasé. Silence fills the room behind me, and I quietly gulp, hoping that I haven't signed my death warrant. Then I hear him chuckle softly. A pair of large sunglasses drops onto my lap, and I put them on, shocked and hesitant.

"You'll, ah, need to protect that eye." I flush dark red, and purple in certain places. What is he doing? "So I'd put those on and _watch _your-self_._" The Joker slides around the chair, reptilian, fingers trailing along its back as he coils around to look at my face. His tongue flickers around his lips like a snake's, and I shiver. "You weren't, ah, _joking_ about losing all sense of self-preservation." His the cold tips of his gloves trace my jaw line musingly. "Or–– or perhaps you're cleverer than you _appear,_ little Harriet. You know your so-called bravery fascinates me, don't you?" The bastard grins, wiping a trickle of blood from my lips with his thumb. I'm now entirely confused. What bravery are we talking about here? Me running my mouth _after_ I've been beaten to a pulp? I'd call that more idiotic than courageous, Mister Joker. He looks pleased, however. "Mm-hm. _Tri_ck-y girl. You know how to play your _cards_."

In one swift movement, the Joker has stood up and turned on his heel, licking the blood off of his finger as he does so. "You know the _old saying_, 'Know thine enemy?' Well, Miss Vince, it occurred to me that _you_ appear–– or at least pretend–– to understand me much better than I do _you_–– judging by the confident tone of your, ah, nasty little _article_. _Tha-t_ leaves us with an uneven playing field. It isn't––ah, _fair._" During this little rant of his, I've been reviewing everything I ever learned about self-defense, in case he attacks me again, but at the peroration, I roll my eyes, cursing inwardly at the pain this inspires.

"Wow, Joker, I wouldn't think fair play was _ever_ one of your top priorities! But we learn something new about our _mass murderers_ every day!" I can feel the acidity of my words as they slide off my tongue, and my bloody lips twist into a wry smile. It's like every movement takes conscious encouragement just to move past the pain, I muse miserably, listening indifferently to the Joker's insane giggling.

"No, Har-ri-_et––_" (it's amazing how he manages to make that sound patronizing _every time_) "––I'm a _great_ believer in the even playing field. That's why I want the ol' Batster to come out of hiding! After all, it isn't like _Maroni_ ever hid behind a mask." I shoot him a look. "True?"

"Maroni never needed to!"

"_You_ don't either. Neither does Harvey Den-_t_." I'm brought up short. Well. That _is_ true. But since the day I got involved, I have wished that that party _had_ been a masquerade, and that I had been wearing the largest African ceremonial mask in existence. Since that day, I have prayed for a chance to trade my face for another's–– trade _lives_, if possible. But I, unfortunately, do not have the monies for full-body plastic surgery and a red eye flight to an untraceable base in the Bermuda Triangle, which are the only things I can think of that would deter this freak of human nature. I recover my angry mood, and snap back at him.

"And what about you, hypocrite? Batman's not the only one wearing a mask!" There's a pause, and then, through the dark glasses, I see the large red mouth split into a wolfish grin.

"This is my _face_." My eyebrows shoot into my hairline.

"Your face is greasepaint, kohl, and Mary Kay?" A vein twitches in his temple. I will myself to shut up.

"Oh, it wasn't the one I was born with–– but it is _me. _Here––" The Joker takes off his gloves and wiggles his fingers. "You'll see–– if you ever get a chance to check–– there aren't any matches, no other, ah, _aliases._ You know why? It's because I'm _you_, Har-ri-_et_. I'm what you _all,_ ah, _really_ are. I'm just–– _ah-nest_ with myself_._ I use my make-up to reveal, rather than con–_conceal._"

The monster leans closer, predatory smile spreading like an oil spill. "Do you remember that stampede in Iraq, Harriet? Only a few years bac-_k_. Fake suicide bomb alert made thousands panic and rush over a bridge in Baghdad." The bright red lips smack with delight. "At _least_ nine-_hun_dred and _sixty-five_ people killed and _four_ hundred and sixty-five _injured_!" He giggles wildly, hands twitching in front of his face. "It's so _fun-ny_ Harriet! Someone shouts 'Fire!' and everyone goes berserk–– not just the usual loonies, but _everyone!_ Suddenly, there's no more order…no more little _moral code._" The Joker straightens up, yellow fangs still bared. "And that's with a _fake_ bombing. Imagine–– imagine how people act when they _know_ they're going to die. Hee hee hee… I'm Dr. Phil-of-the-future, _girl-y_, just showing people that they shouldn't lie to themselves anymore." His voice has become deeper, smarmy. "That–– that they should throw away the lies taught to them." I stare at him. Suddenly Joker jumps up and points at me, giggling. "And I'm telling you now: the word 'death' is like _abracadabra_––say it once and _POOF!_" His hands fly into the air. "Every 'good man' turns into a _rat. _A simple creatureclawing at the others to stay alive." The grinning psychopath shrugs elaborately. "It's Darwinism in a brutal world, Har-ri-_et_, and I'm planning to _survive_."

I am motionless, quiet rage building inside of me. This sick, cynical little theory is the reason Harvey Dent is dying? Why so many have died _already?_ My mouth swings open despite every particle of common sense telling me to _shut the hell up_.

"'And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of brave malenky selves fighting these big machines?'" I laugh bitterly, choking a little on my anger. "Appypollyloggies, _Joker_, but you do what you do because you like to do. Don't, 'ah', _lie_ to yourself."

Yep. Talking was a bad idea.

My head is being jerked back by the hair and my neck feels like its going to snap. I gasp–– a horrible, rattling sound. The Joker's leering face is right before mine, his bright red lips two centimeters from mine. His voice is sneering, derisive. "You think you're better–– don't you? You think you're _different_ from me. But you'll see–– you'll _realize_ what you really are. Everything–– _changes_ under pressure." A leer slithers across his disfigured features. "You already have." I blink back blood and tears behind my dark lenses. "After _all_––" the Joker leans in close, smile playing around his extended mouth "––before me, you would _never_ have considered yourself prepared to commit murder. Or shoot a man in the knee! Hee hee hee, y'see, I've lit a fuse under you, m'dear. It's called _necessity_, and all of your little repressions are rising to the surface–– you're boiling over with 'em." I gasp in pain, trying to tug his hand from my hair.

"Aren't you worried that I'll drown out the flame? You know, that the effects will overpower the cause? Frankenstein's––ow!–– monster?" That makes him pause.

"Hmmm. A good _point_, little Har-ri-_et._" I grit my teeth in frustration as well as sheer agony. I really wish he'd stop calling me that, but I have nothing to wish on. Damn. Maybe if I knew the time–– I snap to. Obviously, whatever the time is, it's not one to be a space cadet during. "But, considering what I _do_ know about you, I think that an _unlike-ly_ situation_._ You want me around–– don't deny it! You're a _journalist._ And in all honesty, Miss Vince, where would you be _without_ me–– or Batman?" He pulls an exaggeratedly curious face, rolling his pitch black eyes to the ceiling and fidgeting like a hyperactive kid on Christmas. In a slow, speculative whine, he continues, saying, "You'd be out of a job–– no… out of a, a _hobby._" His grin widens. "You're a little _voyeur_, aren't you? Profiting off of _pain_. _Madness_. You love the _adventure_, don't you–– as long as you're behind your desk. Oh ho _ho_–– compared to _you_, my cowardly, lion-ized friend, I'm a _saint!_" He licks his mouth almost frantically, eyes narrowed, and then purses his lips. "You–– you were just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, hmmm? Weren't you? I could see it in your eyes as you, ah, _blabbed_–– the fear, that is. The fear of a hunted animal_._" He giggles hysterically, flipping out his knife and placing it close to my face. "But I wonder. _Won_-der_,_ if, if maybe you weren't _just_ scared of me. Because in the terminal, you weren't scared at all. Not at _al-l_. You were–– _dangerous._ And I can't deny that you can be extremely courageous–– _idiotically_ brave." The flat of the blade is pressed against my skin, caressing it. "You're a contradiction in terms, _Harriet_." My name is said curtly, as if he's disturbed that he can't understand me.

After staring at me in twitchy silence, he appears to make a decision, letting go of my hair and pulling me to my feet, muttering, "I think we _both_ need to know what you're afraid of. What you really _care_ about. So that I can attack it, and you can–– hee hee hee–– de_fend_ it! What do _you_ think, Har-ri-_et?_" I wobble in place, happy that he can't see my eyes.

"I think you should just start calling me Harry."


	14. Babydoll

Babydoll do you believe they'll catch you when you fall

**Author's Note** (READ, PLEASE)**:** Gags aren't funny when they're explained, but I think mine needs some clarification–– see, the self-insert genre is the joke, and Harriet's the punch line–– in the end, she's just cowardly, ditzy, and ridiculous, like every Mary-Sue! Ta-dah! XD

_Babydoll do you believe they'll catch you when you fall_

_And when morning comes the sun is gonna shine_

_Don't forget your minor keys your half lit cigarette_

_Cause when morning comes God knows that you'll be mine_

–– The Fratellis, "Babydoll"

"I have to, to a-_polo_-gize for the unprofessional getup of our little experiment, but I'm afraid, hee hee hee, that Dr. Crane is currently, ah, _incapacitated._ Right–– right _now_, I'm the only _ex-pert_ in his field!" The Joker's twitchy, dancing movements make me think of those trained monkeys you see next to the hurdy-gurdy players, and I shudder all over again. The nausea I've fought ever since we were introduced rises in my throat, choking me a little. I try to shake it off, whimpering and shuddering at the visage of the sick, demented, fucking _clown._ This same bastard, I notice, carries on jumping around with a decimated knee as nimbly as the prima ballerina of the Moscow Ballet. Whatever painkillers he's on, I hope I'm getting a dose of the same, I think dully. I doubt the Joker's extended that courtesy, however–– my side is an epicenter of agony, as is my maroon eyeball. Right now, my only protections against pain are silence and the basics of self-defense, the latter option made null and void by my being tightly strapped to what appears to be a modified electric chair. A snarl rises in the back of my throat–– a geyser of pain and anger––but I attempt to keep it quiet.

"Expert on _what?_" I grumble to myself, twisting around and trying to keep the dangerously happy man in what's left of my vision. "And how come you get all the morphine, hmm? Didn't your mother ever teach you how to share?"

Unfortunately, my inner voice is akin to growling megaphone static and is easily heard by anyone within a radius of about five yards. I immediately find myself shrinking into the steel-plated furniture, trying to nullify my propinquity to the Joker's giggly person.

"_I _am an ex_-per-_t on _fear!_ I'm actually completing Dr. Crane's study of terror as a cause of insanity–– and _you_, _Harry_, are the test subject! You––" he whips out that damnable camera–– "are–– are the _lead_ in a, ah, groundbreaking doc_u_mentary! Or a _heartbreaking_ documentary–– we'll just have to see what happens!" The Joker cackles, tightening my straps and muttering to himself, "Oh-oh-oh the _joys_ of _science._ And Harry––" his eyes lock upon my face "––you can't have any, ah, _painkillers _because _pain_ is _es-_sential to _fear_. I mean, he he he, you wouldn't be so _qui-et_ now if you didn't think you had anything to be frightened of, _right?_" I (literally) cannot help but notice that when Joker's excited, he talks rapidly, while still managing to be extravagantly articulate, which makes ineloquent me incredibly envious. He's both menacing and maniacal, with that pointed tongue of his darting around the edges of his Glasgow grin, and his raccoon's eyes glittering. Oh, and he likes to slap the sides of your face. A lot.

"_But_, Harry," the Joker continues, now fiddling impatiently with the camera, "I'm going _outdo_ my, aha ha ha, col_-league_ by not only ex_per_imenting, but by extending this little activity to include our audience! We'll get to see what scares _them_ most! Well, I will–– you'll probably be too, ah, pre-_occu_pied!" And with a flick of his wrist, he's grabbed my glasses and scurried off like the deranged elf he is, cackling wildly. I am dead in my chair. The only thing I can feel is mind-dulling pain, and my left forearm down is completely numb–– it's fallen asleep, probably.

And then I hear, quite distinctly, the soulful grooves of the Foundations. _Why do you build me up (build me up) / Buttercup, baby /Just to let me down (let me down) / And mess me around / And then worst of all (worst of all) / You never call, baby / When you say you will (say you will) / But I love you still._ "Welcome, people of Gotham, to the new entertainment on your moving picture machine–– the _Romantic Comedy!_"

Oh _Jesus._ This fool cultivates smarm like corn. Or–– or he grows _corny_-ness–– and eats it, drizzled with copious amounts of _cheese!_

Yet another inner blooper I'm happy was never aired.

And now, apparently, all of that–– _corn_ going to die from corn smut, I think grimly, attempting to tug the hem of my tiny dress a little further down my thighs. While I was out, tackiness must have become a new art form, because I haven't seen so many sequins since my sorority's Halloween party. _Ugh_.

Someone (three guesses who) takes the corners of my mouth and twists it into a demented grin. "Here's happy Harry! Hee hee hee, doesn't–– doesn't she look _gorgeous?_ I'm afraid filming was de-_layed_ because–– because Sleeping Bea_-u-_ty here didn't hear the _alarm_ go off. But she's awake now! so we can start our, ah, _broadcasts._ Now," he continues, popping his fingers out of my mouth, "I'm sure at _least_ half of Gotham, or at the least all of the Gotham _females_, know the genre of romantic comedy–– story of boy meets girl, they fall in love, are separated, and then get back together. However, in this situation, _you_ get to decide whether your future happiness with Miss Vince is worth the supreme effort–– and possible pain–– of rescuing her! I'll tell you what–– if you renounce all association, obligation, or love with or towards little Har-ri-_et––_" I grit my teeth "––I'll spare you the pain of watching her life and sanity dissolve––_and_ I'll withdraw my threats. What threats? _Wel-l_ let's bring out the three people _supposedly_ closest to Miss Vince: Lieutenant James Gordon, District Attorney Harvey Dent, and playboy Bruce Wayne!"

My heart flies into my throat.

"Harriet! Harriet can you hear me?" Gordon is yelling into what must be his cellphone. I can hear the sounds of the MCU behind him, the panicked and angry voices of officers and detectives, surrounding the sound of instant playbacks of the broadcast. I want to scream to him, to yell to save himself, but I can't bring myself to speak. Terror at what the Joker has in store for my friends has filled my mouth like cement.

"Harriet–– it's me, Harvey! Are you okay? Where are you? Please, answer me!" Another voice, another overwhelming heartache. Harvey, please don't do anything rash––remember who you are––

"…Harriet?"

The world stops turning. My blood is humming in my ears. Despite everything, my heart fills with intense joy, and all I can hear is Bruce.

"Harry, if you an hear me––please, _please_ forgive me. I shouldn't have left––I should have _known_ you wouldn't run. With Harvey out, those people in danger–– there would be no chance of your leaving. I was a fool and–– and a coward, and I have been condemned by everyone. I hope you forgive me." There's a long silence, but I still can't speak. Someone–– Alfred, I think–– whispers something about talking me through this. Bruce starts speaking again, now more upbeat. "I miss you. _Alfred_ misses you." I smile, staring wide-eyed into the spotlight. "Your defense fund has overflowed–– we could probably make bail now! I told the news about that damn necklace, and yes, the tabloids had a field day, but now everyone _knows_ that those deaths were purely accidental. So–– so just hang in there, because the hopes of Gotham's finest are riding on you again. Garcia even compared you to Mulan yesterday––you know, in private–– and sang that bit about making a man out of you. I actually smiled." There's a pause. "I haven't smiled since you disappeared, Harriet. I need you around to laugh."

At this statement, some asshole (who is probably wearing clown makeup and a horrid purple suit) starts playing "Can't Smile Without You," completely ruining the moment. My fists clench and my molars grind. Of _course_ he'd have Barry Manilow. Tacky bastard.

"Well, this is touching and all, gentlemen, but before you start pledging allegiances to a _mur-der-er_–– manslaughter or not–– I want you to know _alllll_ the options. Namely, the choice between Harriet the Heroine and the secondary characters: the Gordon family, Rachael Dawes, and Lucius Fox, each of whom are in terrible _terrible_ danger." There is an explosion on the ends of each of the lines. The Joker continues gleefully, "I'd say that after this injection of fear-toxin-infused alcohol–– pure alcohol–– you each have about _twen-ty_ minutes to discover what you––and Miss Vince–– fear most. Here are the rendezvous points––"

I feel a dam burst inside of me––all of my terror overflows. "Harvey!" I scream, surprising even myself, "Get Rachael! Please, don't waste your time–– go wherever he's showing you and _save Rachael!_ He's trying to––to _twist_ you, all of you–– you would _never_ forgive yourself if Rachael died, Harvey, you have to _go_ to her now!"

"He's not the only person who's devotion will be tested." The Joker's insinuating tone is enough to make me want to snap his neck.

"What the hell does that mean, Joker?" Angry mood rising.

"Well, ol' Batster seems to have a thing for both of you–– he went well out of his way to save _you_, and _threw_ himself out of the window to save Miss Dawes." I roll my eyes as well as I can without bleeding/crying.

"Pssssh. He might just have a thing for catching falling women, have you thought of that? Maybe that's why he started being Batman in the first place: 'Oh man, I hit the _jackpot_ this time! Whoo-hoo, Batboy, let's don the spandex for the ladies who _plunge!_' Or, y'know––'There might be klutzy ladies on rooftops out there! I'm gonna _save_ 'em!' He'll growl in a chipper tone. Or something. Joker, this will fail miserably––I'm sure Batman doesn't have anything invested in my life."

"Except, perhaps, retirement?"

I've been concussed. The wind has been clean knocked out of me. Of course. Of course–– now all the fuss is explained. Batman won't want to save people forever! He–– not to mention the rest of Gotham–– wants unmasked heroes to take his place in the fight against corruption. He probably wants this sooner rather than later. And little Miss Vince, with her big mouth and would-be heroics is candidate number–– two, actually, counting Harvey. Oh, the woes that accompany being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least they'll culminate very soon, I muse miserably as the Joker squirts his hypodermic needle, giggling wildly.

_You see I can't smile without you / I can't smile without you / I can't laugh and I can't sing / I'm finding it hard to do anything / You see I feel glad when you're glad / I feel sad when you're sad / If you only knew what I'm going through / I just can't smile without you._


	15. Mars, the Bringer of War

Author's Note (REAAAAD): So–– School's here

**Author's Note** (REAAAAD)**:** So–– School's here. (Has a small panic attack) Yes, well, due to hell recommencing, I am taking a semi-hiatuses, while maintaining some little smidgen of hope for writing time during the year. I am going to attempt to finish this book as best I can today, and leave y'all waiting for the next installment, hee hee hee! Anywho, I'd like to take this moment to dedicate Harriet and her lovely insanity to my best friend, a Miss Silberstein, whose laugh attacks will never leave me without inspiration. I would also like to extend all my affection and extreme gratitude to Miss Sheetz, my editor in chief and dear friend. And I would like to digitally embrace, one and all, all those who have read and supported my ridiculousness–– I love you all.

Oh, and I'm so pissed with myself–– I finally thought to _check_ what type of knife the Joker carries, and it's _nothing_ like a harpy. It's actually called a Dart Out-the-Front Black Knife, otherwise known as the Cupid Clone. Stupid stupid stupid. Harpy hereby to be replaced with proper name henceforth.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

_Epic terror and rage as performed by the London Philharmonic_

––Gustav Holst, "Mars, the Bringer of War"

The light I am staring into bursts into a thousand fragments–– explodes into my mind, blinding me, wiping me out.

Oh god. This thing. This thing is big.

I am strapped to my steel chair in the middle of a cage, waiting. Waiting. Waiting, feeling fear rushing through my spine like ice forming on a windowpane––cold, rapid, inescapable.

As if to confirm my mind-consuming, irrational terror, an inferno suddenly devours the oxygen around me. Fuses and petrol–– fuses and petrol and gunpowder and the smell of the gaseous fear.

I reach blindly into the flames, grasp something––and begin screaming wildly. Alex is dying in my burning, boiling arms, his flailing body a pulpy mass of gore and scum. His face suddenly shatters into a thousand shards, visages ranging from clown to District Attorney to policeman, all of them screeching like harpies. As I continue screaming, their necks extend and their molars become fangs, their skin becomes rough, scaly. I rush backward, towards the flames, unheeding the heat. Before my bleeding eyes, Alex has become a Hydra, talons reaching to tear my flesh to slivers, and all I am armed with is the Joker's harpy. Hands trembling, I run my thumb along its edge, drawing a bead of blood.

In silence, I decide. Then, shrieking with hatred and terror, I plunge the knife into its heart again and again, tearing my eyes away from the anguish in its faces.

Black blood boils from its chest, a tidal wave covering my hands. In two seconds, all of its heads have been sucked into the fissure my blade has created––dust into a vacuum, astronauts into a black hole. The flames have vanished, leaving me in impenetrable darkness. I hear, through a new fog of panic, the faint sounds of circus music, creaking slats–– Alex softly calling my name. Insidious. Unrelenting.

Nothing but ghosts. Nothing but ghosts.

An icy fingertip runs the length of my spine, my heartbeat races–– and memories burst through a barricade in my mind.

Alex playing his games, assigning "tests" to the children at school. A sniveling boy grabs onto the electric fence as Alex holds me to his body as he and his friends laugh. Every time the boy tries to let go, another jolt runs through his body, making him clench the barbed wire. His hands are raw, but he's been told not to cry, or yell, for fifteen minutes. I am speechless–– fascinated, horrified, my tears mirroring the ones forming at the corners of the victim's eyes.

Other memories boil to the surface of my mind.

Alex showing me how an animal dies, stating calmly that killing was the easiest job humanity could offer. Alex––"teaching me to survive." Alex protecting me. Alex finding me. Alex _hurting_ me.

Me––hurting Alex.

Onomatopoeia.

I am not dead.

This is the first thing I register. Then I realize that I am no longer strapped down anywhere, that the pain is making the rounds on the circumference of my skull, and that I am most definitely _woozy_-fied. Pure alcohol to the bloodstream, eh? I groan, facepalming. And that combined with _hallucinations_ and being on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown is equal to walking death.

"Hulllllo?" I call. There isn't an answer. I try to move around–– and roll right on top of that horrid (_shudder_) fucking _clown_ doll. It emits a loud, sinister cackling, and I jump nearly fifty feet in the air. "Holy––!" I scramble uncoordinatedly away from the fiendish plush thing, all appendages going simultaneously until I fall right over the edge of my brightly colored mattress. "Holy––!" I burble, feeling my stomach heave. Down, nausea–– down, boy!

Somewhere in the following silence–– as I hug my mid-riff, body shivering uncontrollably–– my scrambled and terror-infused conscious starts to suspect that my sickness has deeper, and infinitely more disturbing roots than alcohol.

This feels more like extreme trauma to the heart–– think of the cut of a carving knife. A part of me is not–– _right_. Not there, even. I pause, loosening my tight self-embrace, slow realization rising like a grey dawn. I feel like someone tried to patch my heart with canvas–– and then left in the middle of the proceedings. The wounds have healed badly, like the Joker's scars. My conscious feels bumpy––a new disfigurement in my mentality that oozes the dregs of fear, paranoia–– and pure hatred.

What has happened to my friends? What has happened to _Bruce?_ For all I know, they could all be dead by now. Oh. _Oh_. Everything, everything, _everything_ is hollow, I chant to myself, hands cradling my pounding, screaming head, heart twisting and pulling apart at the seams. The world is a pain-filled pit–– a dank and dirty black hole festering, discharging pus. I'm falling through its center, disturbed laughter enveloping me, penetrating me. Falling and knowing the hell that awaits me when I hit bottom. Falling, burning with rage and broken pride.

And then he fell into a crevasse, I think, remembering that documentary I watched about human willpower.

_Laughter._

I whirl around, gasping, heart pounding like timpani. Somewhere in the room, someone has succumbed to high-pitched, wheezing, maniacal sniggering, and it hangs in the air like a bad smell. Straining, fury scorching my heart, I try to pinpoint the sound, and then realize: _I'm_ giggling_._

Did the explorer break his leg before or after he fell? I think, some perverse part of my mind running on, leaving the other half of me disgusted and horrified. The little demon within me, of course, gives way to body-wracking laughter as I remember watching that poor fool continue to fall into crevasses, going deeper and deeper into the ice, just like a cartoon. The best part, however, had to be when he finally climbed to the surface, then realized that he had to trek over miles of glacier–– which were all _full of crevasses_. I shake my head, schardenfreude bubbling from this new hole in my psyche. From college to this–– to being the quiet girl who ran into things and read books at sorority gatherings to the numskull blabbermouth lying beaten, half-insane, and in the clutches of the mass murderer of the century.

_You see I feel glad when you're glad / I feel sad when you're sad / If you only knew what I'm going through / I just can't smile without you!_

Who has terrible taste.

Suddenly, the door is kicked open with a loud _bang!_ Interesting, I think disconnectedly, and with tremendous effort, I throw my torso up and onto the bed, head flopping on the mattress comically, arms splayed upwards. I'm staring into the painted eyes of a clown face crudely painted on a canvas bag, which has been pulled unevenly over–– whoever it is's face. He's holding a large, half-empty bottle of vodka, and thrown over his shoulder is a somewhat humanesque figure. Fighting to stop myself from slaughtering him, I attempt to maintain homeostasis. After all, alcohol is a depressant, and he's done nothing to me–– directly. Shoving my hand under my chin awkwardly, I keep my eyes disinterested, trying to stay cool while desperately hoping that whoever is slung over his shoulder is not already experiencing _rigor mortis._ "Heeeeyyyy." I look around lazily, reach for the sunglasses on the wacky bedside table and nearly poke out my undamaged eye with them. Smooth, Fonzy.

"Hey yeself." The clown is disgruntled, and I am (nauseously) interested. What deflates a clown, hmmm?

"Why so serious, _Grrrum-ps?_" I drawl, giving my best Joker impression. To my supreme amusement, it works well enough to make my companion start violently, and he rounds on me. "Ah-ch-cha!" I tsk, giggling furiously, "No touchy! Noooo touchy. _I_ am dead–– hee _hee_ –– I am _dead_ _drunk_, and, y'know, there are rules about that sort of thing."

"Drunk?" I imagine, from the tone of his voice, that Mr. Grumpy is cocking an eyebrow. I cock one right back.

"Yes–– as in what one is after sixty milliliters of pure alcohol is injected directly into their bloodstream. I'm guessing the twenty minutes of flirting with death are over?" Grouchy nods his canvas bag. "Someone came to rescue me?" The masked man shrugs, lightly tossing the still unidentified form onto the bed, which shakes with the impact. I am absolutely bewildered–– admittedly not difficult thing when your head feels like it's filled with cotton candy. Why am I alive? Who is that lying motionless on the mattress? I feel a shard of fear plunge through my heart, and I scramble up onto the bed. "Someone's been killed, haven't they?" But my companion remains laconic, shrugging yet again. I sit back, mouth twisted with exasperation. "Well then, Frowny McClown, what's the deal? Why aren't I dead or dying?"

Now, apparently, it's his turn to laugh at me. Well, I think, entirely irritated, every encounter I've had in Gotham ends up like this, one way or another. I just wish that this audience wasn't so antagonistic.

"You ain't drunk, lady–– it took us all _night_ to bring you back from the edge of _death_, so you've gotta be weak. What you feel rollin' around in your guts is alcoholsickness plus morphine." Oh, I think dully, and slump onto the bed next to my comatose companion. Hello Mr/Mrs. Catatonic how's the family? Oh god I hope you don't have family. The clown sets the bottle of vodka besides me. His other hand drifts a little ominously through my hair as he does so, traveling down my arm as he relaxes into a chair, the eyes of his mask still fixed on my face. "Look, lady, I'm a nice guy, so until the boss gets here, ye safe. You just drink–– as much as you want." Oh Jesus. I'm stuck with the plotting perv. If my energy weren't concentrated upon keeping myself from passing out or going berserk, I'd probably be weeping from the anxiety caused by McClown's presence. Instead, I devote myself to musing on how much of my strength I'll need to regain before I can simply beat him to death.

"Well, aren't you the gentleman?" I say snorting like a bull and rolling onto my back, lifting up a piece of hair covering my companion's face as I do so. I feel paralysis seize my entire body.

It's Rachel Dawes.

Mind racing, I stretch indulgently to grab the vodka, praying that I can manage to run when the occasion calls for it. What the hell is Dawes doing here if Harvey and Batman (and Bruce–– but the Joker wouldn't know that) were supposed to make a self-destructive choice? "If you're going to be courteous, Grumps, why don't you just let me and my sleeping friend _out_ of this hellhole, hmmm? Open the door, ladies first, and sorry for the bad hospitality m'am would you like a chauffeur to drive you home?"

"'Cause, lady, I can't risk getting fired." My mouth forms into an exaggerated "O" of revelation, and as I slowly slide headfirst and backwards off the bed, I point my right hand at him like a gun, hoping that he keeps his eyes on my face.

"Or fired at!" I slur, adding a "pzzew!" for good measure. McClown shrugs, and I hear him chuckle as I hit the carpet and flip over backwards, luxuriously stretching my arms for good measure.

"What difference?" he says, laughing. Oh, yes, he thinks I'm safe–– but in two seconds, this damn bottle is going to be used to inaugurate the maiden voyage of the HMS Concussion. Before this plan can be set in motion, however, I hear the floorboards creak.

I freeze.

"What difference _indeed?_" I twist around, terror weakening every muscle in my body. I to sink back to the floor, defeated by the silhouette of the Joker's hunched frame in the doorway. I choke, eyes flying shut, and––

I'm in my room, crumpled sheets in a dark bed. Hunched silhouette in the rectangle of yellow light. A voice I never want to hear again, whispering, "Hello, Harry." I hear myself cry out, and––

I've returned to Real Life, which is already in progress.

In the last two seconds, the Joker has already advanced far too close for comfort, the hem of his sewage-and-blood-splashed trench coat brushing my ankles as he nudges McClown impatiently with the barrel of his gun. "Up up up," he mutters feverishly, finally shoving his henchman from the chair with the nose of his submachine. Without sparing McClown a glance, the Joker sits down, tongue darting around his lips like a horse around a racetrack. "Hel_lo, Harriet._" He speaks quickly, long fingers flitting over the handle of his gun, through his strange, green-tinted hair, mouth twitching spastically. Oh lawd, I think miserably, who's gotten him ticked off now? He kicks McClown in the ribs a little emphatically, not bothering to look at him. "Trying to, ah, _corrupt_ my staff, hmm?" My breath catches in my throat, but I force myself to stay calm. With vodka on my breath, who would guess that I'm still capable of outrunning a train? I stare into the Joker's hungry black pupils. Better play up the drunkard act–– meaning showing no fear at any time. On this note, I laugh, upping my wooziness.

"I thought corruption came with the _package!_" I squeeze my eyes shut, giggling and swilling another "gulp" of vodka. Oh, the lessons learned in college_._ "I mean, you–– you just seem to have that _effect_ on people! Take me, for instance––"

"Don't mind if I do," McClown mutters. I attempt to kick him from the floor, missing by inches. The Joker, however, obliges. I incline my head in thanks.

"As I was saying–– take me for instance. All it took was violence, PTS, and fear toxin to make me want to destroy the world. And I'm not even all gone yet!"

"This is why I'm taking this moment to have a little, ah, bonding time." I give a sloppy grin, waving my vodka rather haphazardly.

"Hydrogen or covalent?" That crazy red curve splits apart, revealing his yellowed molars.

"Either way, _Harry_––we have, ah, _chemis_-try!"

There is a long and profound silence.

I laugh as drunkenly as possible, grabbing the bed and standing up clumsily, groaning with the sheer horribleness of the joke. "Are you trying to kill me with _pun_nery? That–– that was _terrible!_" I sway closer to the chair, quiet giggling becoming uncontrollable. The vodka is clutched behind my back–– I try not to let it slosh as I lean in towards him, placing my hooded eyes two inches from his own.

I'm far too close to the Joker.

"Mmm." I breathe deeply, closing my eyes. "You smell like–– burnt flesh. Gasoline. Sweat…blood–– and theater!" I slur happily, languidly straightening up and pinching his cheek. "Why Joker, you're just a big _ball_ of smelly!"

I'm toooo close.

Too close, of course, meaning that when I try to bean him with the vodka bottle, he knows _exactly_ what I'm doing.

I scream with pain as fingers close around my wrist, bruising the skin and making me drop my one weapon–– not to mention my one defense. I'm pushed down onto the floor, the Joker's evil, permanent smile mocking my failure. "You–– you haven't _learned_ at all, _have_ you, Harry? Or perhaps you're finally understanding the, ah, _desperateness_ of your sit-_u_-ation. Or, rather, Batman's." Oh _god_, I think, horrified.

"What have you done with my friends? Where is Bruce?" I whisper through gritted teeth. "Where–– where is Gordon––Harvey––?" I realize how terrified I sound–– how terrified I _am._ Have I been destroyed inside and out, only to see the people I love most die? "Rachel–– what's Rachel––?" He laughs into my face, now streaked with tears that I never realized had filled my eyes, his hand clutching my chin. I feel something inside of me burst–– a panicked, destroyed, and ravenous creature is ripping me apart inside. My throat tears and cracks with its screams. "_Answer me, you bastard!_" He clucks his tongue, wiping my tears roughly with his palms.

"No-no-no, Harry, you don't see–– that isn't how we play this game. You–– you see, in a world like ours," he says, grandly, standing to tower above me, "man _is_ the measure of all things. The only truth is force, and the only _love_ is that of _power._ You, Harriet–– you're not a pawn, not anymore. You're a queen of _cards._" With a flick of his wrist, he's presented me with a playing card.

Queen of Diamonds.

"Cute," I growl, furious sarcasm piercing my terror as I tackle his knees, causing him to do a faceplant. Got to get out of here–– got to get Rachel and run. Scrambling over his thin, prone form, panting, my desperate fingers scrabble to find a weapon, any weapon, Rachel's arm–– anything! Hearing him turn over with an enraged snarl, throwing me off of him bodily. I fall sideways, dragging the blanket on top of me. "Oh fuck!" is knocked out of me like the dust rising in a cloud from the carpet, and I feel pincher-like hands seize my ankles and begin pulling me inexorably backwards, my raw hands clawing feverishly at the linty key-green shag, leaving little trails of crimson like some campy horror victim. He continues hissing to me, sounding much like an extremely peeved swan.

"We play a game of _persuasion_–– we all have different realities. You know it. I know it. But what if we _shared_ one. That's–– that's what I'm _driving_ at." His long-fingered hand reaches down like a mechanical pincher and seizes my upper arm, dragging me upward. "You and I, though you won't _admit it––_" his face fills with irritation "––understand the world in the same way. We know what it takes to win. Not to be _just_. Not be–– be vir-_tu-_ous. But to _win._" His eyes take on a singularly sadistic gleam. "All you need, Harry, to see things _my_ way, hee hee hee, is a little––a little, ah, _perspective_. You––you already have all the _training._"

My heart stops. The rictus grin splits wide open.

"Alex, did you say?"


	16. Crazy

You know those pictures of boxers throwing punches, where they are completely balanced and controlled, their bodies taut and fu

**Author's Note **(YOU'D BETTER READ IT)**:** Okie dokie–– Harry's talents in the areas of firearms and general fighting are to be explained, in very little detail, and, hopefully, very little angsting, which I find obnoxious in main characters, and which is the mark of a Mary-Sue. Let's take a moment to wish ourselves the best of luck in this regard.

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_C'mon now_

_Who do you_

_Who do you _

_Who do you who do you think you are?_

_Ha-ha-ha, bless your soul_

_You really think you're in control?_

_Well, I think you're crazy_

_I think you're crazy_

_I think you're crazy_

_Just like me_

––Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy"

You know those pictures of boxers throwing punches in sports magazines? The ones where the puncher is streamlined, balanced, and controlled, their bodies taut and full of energy, slamming someone across the face with all their muscled might? The ones that make you appreciate the beauty of the human form and the power of the athlete?

I am that, facedown.

Yes, due to my supernatural inability to maintain equilibrium, my furious punch has completely missed the Joker's face and led me to fall upon my own. I'm surprised National Geographic hasn't made a series about my unique talents yet––girl born unable to walk without destroying something, study headlined Pathetic. This spectacular display was helped, of course, by the fact that I no longer have any depth perception, and that the pain in my ––oh _yeah_–– broken shoulder has overwhelmed my capacity for rational thought. Pathetic, I think, and roll onto my back in time to be hauled up by the straps of my dress. McClown is holding me at eye-to-eye height, and the air between my dangling feet and the ground is an ignominious reminder of my dwarf status. The anger still boils through my body, but the utter shame brought on by my pathetic–– _absolutely pathetic_–– attempt, combined with the agony I experience, makes me go limp. I bawl like a spoiled child refused Snickers (product placement in my mind, when will the capitalists _stop_).

I'm thrown down upon the ground, head slamming into the dusty carpet (apparently no one in Gotham has used a vacuum in the last five decades), and I sob even harder, choking on dust bunnies and whimpering as I'm pushed inexorably into the floor–– like a gravitron, but with hands. Big hands. I cannot see through my tears, but feel–– oh god, _feel_–– hot, grasping––skin? leather?–– sliding along my body, making me panic. Shocked, blushing in shame, I lash out against the heat, giving way to a pure and all-consuming fury, viciously hoping that whoever it is has a really big nose. _Everything_ has dissolved in the face of overwhelming rage––the exhilaration of harming this–– this _thing._ I punch and gouge heedlessly, mind a brilliant mess of neon nerve explosions, thrilling to the sound of crack, a snap, a gush of blood.

Assbitch crack whore scum-sucking motherfucker.

This little litany runs through my head like a liturgical chant as I feel my hands, arms, and torso being baptized in another's fluids. I feel–– _feel_–– like there's something inside me, clawing at the walls of my body, screaming, turning my heart into a mess of pain and searing anger.

And you know what's really scary?

It's nice.

I feel someone grab me from behind, someone tug me back, away from the dark and the loud and the dust and the nice, just as inexorably as I was pushed into it. Gentle hands pressing my flailing arms to my sides in a serene bear hug, murmuring in my ear (which is torn and bleeding, funny how these new sources of pain barely register now) and I don't want it, I _don't_ want it, I want to punch and gouge and feel the nice. Not this artificial nice, the raw, thrilling nice of the inferno that explodes inside me with the sound of my fists making someone shriek. But–– but–– but they're trying and this nice is so _nice_ that it's the sort of nice you have to treat nice. Comprende?

Neither do I.

"Harriet, are you okay?" The voice is feminine, concern slurred with the remains of sedatives. Rachel. "How are you?" Such a small talk question in such a big-talk setting. I want to cry.

"Nicely nicely." My head bobbles like a doll's. The embrace tightens, and I'm a little girl again–– the one protected, not protecting. Maybe this protector I won't have to protect myself from–– a sister, instead of a brother. I clutch at the arm, at the artificial warmth, at the gentleness, squeezing my eyes shut to the long shadow rising up in front of me, giggling.

"Why, don't you look ridiculous Harry, huddling in the arms of your surrogate mother?" Parts of me that are not overrun by terror and pain muster up enough idiocy to reply to the hot breath on my face.

"I'm still not the one in the Beetlejuice costume." I am jerked up by my arm–– the broken one–– and again my mind is awash in neon-colored explosions of pain, causing me to lose hold of the Rachel's desperately clutching hands. Am I a masochist? Is this why pain is always so brightly colored? Or is it just the Joker's influence, turning my entire life into a sick carnival? I strongly believe it's the latter, and find I don't want to open my remaining eye–– I'll be staring into pits just as dark, and infinitely less comforting. "Oh–– ow, fuck–– c'mon Joker, you have to admit you walked right into that one," I mumble dazedly. "No–– you were _made_ for that one."

"Joker! Let her go! You have Harvey's word–– you can't hurt her while the bargain stands!" My mind jolts into action, even as I hear her being beaten with vigor. "You have to let her go!"

"What?" Ominous, this is. "Rachel, tell me Harvey did the right thing."

"Oh, he _did_." The Joker's sneering voice wafts like a bad odor through my mind. "Har-ri_-et_, you might be interested to _know_ just how ma-ny people cared about your safety, _in the end_." There are geysers forming in my eyes, but I shake my head furiously, still not daring to look at the monster. Hot leathered fingers caress my face, making me shudder, and I hear his insinuating voice slithering right into my ear, serpentine.

"_One_."

I've been shoved in the stomach. Old Faithful bursts from my tear ducts, breaching my eyelids and forcing them open like a dam before a flood. I collapse to the hot carpet, dirty and bloody, sniveling, gulping and moaning horribly. My head feels like its being split by an axe murderer, and my eyes are heavy and deep-set in my head. They have to throw you away. Every time, Harriet, and every time _you know_ it's the right thing. I am too weak to be a hero, was too cowardly to risk escape, and now who _knows_ what happened to them. I know I have no right to feel bitter, to feel abandoned, but I also know I feel like a used douche–– used to wipe the world of scum, and always collecting more.

"Harriet, they didn't have a choice!" Rachel's voice is strangled with anguish, pity. "I saw the map, he placed bombs in the school, civic, and financial districts–– too many people had family, friends–– in–– in danger, and oh God Harriet I'm _sorry!_ You don't deserve this! None of us do!" To my horror, I hear her breaking down, sobbing somewhere on the ground beside me

"You mean _you_ don't deserve this." The Joker's voice has risen to a near-hysterical pitch, and in my peripheral vision, I can see his gloved hands dancing and twitching on my shoulders, his painted face stretched wide with glee. He gestures, and with a swift motion, McClown brings the palm of his hand to the base of Rachel's neck, knocking her out. The Joker's head snaps around, smile widening as his face slides closer to mine. "They don't seem to _care_ about what happens to their heroes–– in the end. In the _end_, when their _lives_ are at stake, and the lives of those clo-_sest_ to them are _thurrrrea__tened_–– they don't really _care_ if their spunky little journalist, who would _gladly _die for them_–– _does!" He cackles, turning to look at Rachel's unconscious form. "She gave everything for you, and you _abandon_ her? Tsk, tsk, tsk.

"_Harry_," the Joker continues, twisting his face down into my hair, his mouth hot, moving sporadically against my ear, "what did you say in that article of yours? Something about the betrayal of saviors being the _highest form of ingratitude?_ Such a _poor response_ to such a heroic statement! It's sad, ah, pa_-the-_tic, what they have done to you." I gulp back a sobbing moan, and he's stroking my hair in an awkward facsimile of tenderness, and I hear him whisper incoherently into the nape of my neck. Too close too close too close. He is slowly moving around me, and I see his eyes are greedy and yes, frighteningly possessive. I also notice with horror that his mouth is bleeding. "You see, Harry, I can _see_ what you _really are_–– I just can't figure you out. But the others–– the others, they, ah, they don't even allow themselves to see _that_ much. At the risk of sounding cliché, _giiiirly,_ I'd like to note that you're _twisted_, Harriet––and so am _I._ We're two of a kind! There's _got_ to be reason behind that sort of madness!"

Using the last of my strength, I push away from him, only to crumple again to the ground, whimpering like a kicked animal. Which is fairly accurate analogy, I admit. Then I realize––with the same shock as when I realized I was laughing–– that I am muttering to myself, mumble-chanting that I don't want another brother. Panicking, I shut myself up, desperately hoping that no one heard me. Of course, with the way things are going, its no wonder that the next thing to be said is, "And what's wrong with your first brother, _Harry?_" I answer without thinking, too busy pulling myself on hands and knees to Rachel's side.

"He's a bully, he's bigger than me, and he thinks just like you." There's a prolonged cackle.

"Brilliantly?"

"Try sadistically." His big black shoe swings up and slams into my stomach, hard. I curl up like a roly-poly, moaning and spitting up blood, praying that I will not receive any more blows, oh please God, no more _pain_. I'm virtually wallowing in neon starbursts now––a Fourth of July spectacular taking place in my skull. This desperation quickly turns to indignant rage, and I try standing up, only to be kicked in the mid-riff again. I burst into great, gulping sobs, now entirely frustrated and infuriated. "_What?_ He was! I was his little protégé, dammit, I should _know!_ Fucker made me afraid of _everything_, just to show me how much I needed him! And then tried to turn me into a carbon copy of himself! You want to know _why_ I know how to climb up a drainpipe? Because I spent most of my childhood _avoiding him._"

I roll onto my front, legs still clutched to my chest. "And when I didn't avoid him, I _believed_ him. I believed that I would _have _to be a coward and his dependent for all time–– because I'm weak and klutzy! I was _happy_ he was teaching me to fire guns, _happy_ he was showing me how to survive in a sick and twisted world, because I genuinely believed that my purpose in life was to help him, just as _he_ 'helped' me."

I gag a little on the blood rising in my throat, and spit it out, onto the carpet, still sobbing. My head hangs down, warmth dripping from my nose, eyes, ears, and mouth like a leaky faucet. I stand up slowly, and, wobbling, turn to look the Joker in the eye, sniffing a little. "So I don't need anyone telling me how _alike_ we are, and how we can survive and slaughter and 'kick ass' together, because honestly, I _already know,_ and I don't want to be a part of it. Beingaround _another_ Alex––I don't want to lose control–– and I know I will. I know it. I'm a coward, and I'd snap when threatened, or I'm a coward and wouldn't be able to face that I'm capable of snapping–– but either way, Joker, I _can't_ be like you!" I take a deep, shuddering breath, reaching my catharsis. "I'll die before that happens."

He's just laughing. Just–– standing there, laughing. At me. And my childhood trauma, dammit.

I feel like I've walked into a column again.

But this laugh is not maniacal–– well, it is, but it's not hysterical. It takes me a while, but I realize (with a horrible, hollow horror) that this is what is known as an _angry_ laugh.

"Har-ri-_et_, why don't you _love_ me?" the Joker says, voice lilting, mocking. I start. What the_ fuck?_ I roll my eyes nervously, anxious giggling shaking my body.

"_What?_ Oh man, if you're hiring groupies, Joker, you'll have to look for someone more unstable than me!" I wish I hadn't said that.

Again, I have been hit. Such an abusive relationship. I idly wonder if this little therapy session is merely an excuse to use me as a punching bag. The Joker bounces over the bed, looking remarkably like an infuriated, deranged version of the White Rabbit, and throws me into the wall. "Jeez," I manage to choke out, "can't you take a joke? You really should learn to laugh at yourself!" I'm reckless, I'm spinning out of control, and I'm racing for nice-nice-_nice_, terrified by myself, but inwardly cracking up at the idea of the Joker in bunny ears.

Everything sinister has culminated into the truly threatening, and the Joker stands in the room, practically radiating rage and menace. "_Why_ don't you _love_ _me_?" I shake my head wordlessly, terror numbing every nerve, killing every thought process. What the _fuck_ is going on? I squeeze my eyes shut, praying furiously for control. "Look at me–– _look at me!_" My eyes fly open, his irises are all I can see, and I can feel myself tumbling into their darkness, vertigo and sick panic within me and without me.

"You see–– _you see_––this is a game of per_-suasion_, Har-ri-_et_. We all have our own realities, you know it, I know it. But what if we _shared_ one. That's what I'm driving at. _You_ don't want to be like _me––_ but only because you know you already _are_." His tongue darts around his lips, and he looks like he's preparing to take a dive off of a high board–– determination tempered with mania. "You already have all the _training_––all you need is a little perspective!" His long-fingered hand reaches like a mechanical pincher and seizes my upper arm, dragging me close to him. "Do you want to _know_–– do you want to know how I got these scars?"

There's a long silence.

Then I realize he's actually asking.

I can feel my eyes become as big as saucers. Do I want to know about his scars…. I touch them lightly, almost unconsciously, with my fingertips, and flinch when he winces. "Sorry," I mumble, face turning red despite my fear, which mounts as I realize my proximity to Mr. Happy. The cuts are jagged–– ill-healed and raised in horrible contours upon his face, mountains and valleys upon the expanse of his cheeks. Scarlet face paint has settled deep into the cracks and lines of the skin–– tiny maroon rivulets etched in rouge-tinted flesh. I find my fingers slowly following the line of his lower lip, tracing the smile that deforms him. His eyes–– my own snap up to them–– are watching me, their umber is as dark as obsidian, with a glimmer in their depths that makes me want to step back and run-run-run until I've dashed into a universe where he can never find me.

Suddenly it dawns on me. I jerk, horrified, and begin thrashing like mad, vainly trying to escape from his grasp. "No! No! _No!_" I'm whimpering, shaking with fear. Oh god, oh _fuck._ He's crushing me to his chest, refusing to let me go, giggling maniacally, asking, mockingly, what's wrong? why am I upset? Trembling uncontrollably, I squeeze my eyes shut and manage to stammer, "B-b-because you made those scars yourself!"

There's a dreadful silence, broken only by his stifled laughter.

"_Wha_-t?"

I gulp, eyes still tightly closed. "Y-you–– Your stories, I don't know if they're true, b-but they would never do something like _this._ You wouldn't have to remain this way, mentally _or_ physically, if you hadn't chosen to––I think _you_ did this. Anger is only p-_part_ of it." He has released my shoulders, has stepped back slowly. I allow myself to open my eyes, and in the one that is working, I see a slow grin forming on his face. "_You_ gave them their power, Joker–– you–– you even _relish_ them. Y-You think that humanity is like a little boy who kills flies for sport. That–– that may be so, but _you're_ a little boy killing little _girls_. There's still a difference between callousness and sadism, Joker." I look into his face, preparing myself for pain. "I can't love sadists anymore." I smile weakly. "I barely like myself."

I draw a breath. And then, without warning, my mouth is smashed against his, being invaded and attacked viciously overwhelming me as my hands are pulled behind my back. I cannot breath, I cannot think, I am bewildered and set upon and terrified, and I manage to wonder whether this is a new method of suffocation, and whether I should be worried for my life. I'm sure I'm turning red, as if my very being is being dyed with tomato and strawberry juice, and I hit and kick at him ineffectively. I'm broken, scared, and mortified, but when I finally push him off, punching him across the jaw for good measure, I manage to gasp, "What a big _mouth_ you have, grandmother!" I feel sick, and sicker when he answers:

"All the better to cor_-rupt_ you with, _m'dear._"


	17. Book III: The Solemn Hours

**AUTHOR'S NOTE** (aka hello again)**: **So. I'm back! This is the end of this book, the apocalyptic chapter of doom. It is arranged by hours, the hours the Joker leaves Gotham to decide what to do about Batman, and to escape his control. This begins The Solemn Hours, and each will be prefaced by another character's POV. Enjoy.

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_Sanctus Espiritus, redeem us from our solemn hour_

_Sanctus Espiritus, insanity is all around us_

_Sanctus Espiritus, is this what we deserve?_

–– Within Temptation, "Our Solemn Hour"

He was flying, veering, careening, and the part of him that screamed to go back, which shouted the truth to him, was Batman. The part that whispered doubts, that screamed uncertainties and disappointments was the Dark Knight. But it was Bruce that had the wheel, Bruce that sped along in the night, that was nothing but a blur of shadow against darkness, relentless and–– _pointless_.

He was a silhouette. No light glowed in the driver's seat but one radiated from the passenger's, the bluish-white light of a computer that threw Harvey's profile into sharp relief. In Bruce's peripheral vision, it was impossible to comprehend his companion's expression. His reflection held no answers: in the tinted glass, he was nothing but silhouette himself. The tinny, recorded sounds of screaming–– of tortured shrieks and sobs–– emanated from the laptop speakers. Sounds of her. Sounds of death.

At that moment, Bruce realized the beauty and kindness of a gun.

He pressed the pedal to the floorboards.

_**Hour 1**_

The waffles are disgusting.

I wake up, and there they are, right in front of me as I sit, strapped to a too-small chair like a child in my clown _(shudder)_-decorated room. Its mouth is made of bright-red bacon, but apparently to someone, that horrible smile was not enough. They have expanded its reach from ear to hypothetical ear with strawberry jam, and the egg eyes have been emphasized with blackberries encircling them.

What I wouldn't give for Frosted Flakes. I always liked tigers.

There's a big bang and through the door strides my old friend McClown, carrying another dish of nasty. He doesn't say anything, but I sense that his gaze is reproachful. Apparently I'm supposed to eat this repulsive meal. "You do understand the insulting innuendo contained in this meal, don't you? You do understand why I'm very pointedly _not_ chewing on Bacon-lips here?" McClown splutters–– he might even be embarrassed–– and uncovers the second dish. "Exploded sausages, very nice. Just like the Joker to put the 'gore' back into gourmet." Something slams into the back of my head, shoving it into the food and causing blood to pour from my nose again. Yuck.

"Hmmm, _in-_teresting idea, _Harry._ Whaddya say to being the maitre-d?"

I twist up and away from McClown's painted eyes, spitting bile and blood and whatever else my body contains. "Yup," I rasp, "Black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, blood––I think I've just hacked them all out. Now all I have left is _bad_ humor."

And yet, they still manage to laugh.

"Harriet, you have to calm down." A cold hand touches my ankle and my body attempts to jump a foot in the air. Unsurprisingly, it fails, doing a little more of a jerk in my chair. I moan at the excruciation this causes–– as my stomach is wobbling like a pained bowl of gelatin. Ignoring the questionable structure of that description, I moan dazedly, looking around, ideas and observations disjointed, apathetic. A crumpled figure lies by my feet.

"Rachel? Are you awake then?" She nods, tears start to her eyes, and she opens her mouth to say something apologetic, but I shake my head as furiously as I can without getting motion sickness. "No, shut up, I'm telling you now. Nothing and no one has caused my pain other than, you know, the cause of all my pain." Said tormentor cackles behind me, but I attempt to ignore him. "And I wouldn't trade in my experiences for anything! I've made–– friends, and realized things about myself and, um, others, and I wouldn't give up my experience with–– with _you_, or Alfred, or, um–– _Gordon_ for anything!" I'm turning bright red. Infatuation is not something you mention to your one friend who also happens to be the love interest of your love interest but who may or may not return those feelings because of another love interest who you yourself find interesting. It's too messy for a tenuous friendship, barely founded and based on shared pain. I blink furiously, attempting to look sincere. No, _I_ have nothing to hide.

"It's okay, Harriet––" Rachel begins, but then the door slams open again, clowns rush in, and the Joker's smile poisons my mind once more.

"I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt this little, ah, _chat_, but you and I have a program to view." McClown advances, and I feel a part of me go absolutely bonkers.

"_NOOOO!_ GET OUT OF HERE WITH THAT WATCH! LAY OFF THE POOR BEAVERS WILL YA? SHEEEEEEEEEEESH! YOU'RE A CREEP! GO AWAY! WE WERE HAVING A GOOD TIME UNTIL YOU SHOWED UP! GRRRRRRR GO HAVE SOME COFFEE WITH CREAM––OR _SOMETHING!_ CAUSE I'LL TELL YOU SOMETHING–– THIS IS A HAPPY PLACE!"

It has gone very quiet. Thank you, nineties cartoons, for all my childhood corruption. I sigh a little, glaring at the stunned henchmen. "Sorry, I'm having trouble regaining my usual façade of strained and neurotic sanity." The Joker gives another of his signature high-pitched giggles, and I restrain my urge to strangle him with a bit of string.

"I hate to leave you in such a _state,_" he continues, licking his too-large lips. "But I'm off to hunt _bigger_ prey." My entire body heaves, but as I cough black blood I glare at his cocky expression. He leans in closer, face lit with a child-like glee––if the child was also a sadist. "And I mean that in more than one way." He pauses. "_Two!_"

"Oh, now you're just trying to get on my good side," I rasp, unable to move for the pain, but also not wanting to get any closer to him than I already am. I can still feel his hot, paint-encrusted lips smearing themselves over mine, his glinting eyes locked upon my own shocked pair, boring into my pupils like tunneling drills, and I am grateful to him for the familiar pain he is inflicting. It's suddenly a safe zone on the edge of very deep waters.

The condescending bastard pats me on the head, and, to my horror, kisses my forehead. "_Therrre_, now, you'll be protected from all _bad things_." My working eye twitches.

"I thought only bad witches were ugly."

"Aaaaand _that's_ why you're still here." He playfully slaps me, as is his usual conveyance of affection. "'Cause we both know, _don't_ we, Harry–– true ugliness is found _within_."

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It burned and he fell.

He fell as it burned and nothing was solved, only worsened.

_Harriet._

Batman knew so many have been twisted, undone, scarred, traumatized. That so many were like him.

_But please don't let it be too late for her._

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"No! _Rachel!_ Where are you _taking her?_" My screaming is bouncing off the walls, is a thousand-fold and I am many-headed and half-blind in every form. I can't even begin to understand the hands touching me, holding me back, the burlap that is rustling against my neck and the sick laughter emanating around me as I see her being pulled into a van, her feet disappearing after her shrieks. A clown–– do these people think that if there are more of them, there's a better chance that they'll be considered funny?–– caresses my face and sniggers lewdly.

"I know your _all_ revved up, but me and the boys need to take care of little Miss Squeeze. Won't Dent be shocked to hear how she died?" I can hear his grin and I shudder, sick and cold to the core. "You should just be happy you got the good witch's kiss, sweetheart–– I can guarantee good things are coming your way!"

He nods abruptly to someone behind me, and I'm being dragged, pulled back into the darkness and the dank, iron-tinged smell of blood that is my bedroom/cell. My hands are jerked behind me and rough rope cuts into my wrists but all I can feel is the rawness of my throat and fat tears stinging my eyes. _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel…!_ The man who steps around is faceless, hidden by shadow. Full of spite, I spit at him, now only concerned with causing the nasty fellow as much pain as possible. Bait 'im, Harry! "You cowardly bastard, are you just sticking around to get first dibs? Or do you not like the sight of blood? And where's the Joker, huh? Is he squeamish after all?" My head is jerked back and suddenly the good witch's raspy voice fills my dizzy, nauseated mind. Okay, so maybe I was not quite ready to reel in yet–– or maybe I was too much the bait to be in control of the situation?

"I thought my level of squeamishness was _obvious._" I retch, remembering that this demonic human being cut up his own fucking face. Suddenly the pressure at my back swings out before me. It's the Joker, but as I've never seen him.

The make-up is gone. His face is bared, as are his teeth, and without the white greasepaint, I suddenly see shallow, very real skin. Some small, malicious voice vehemently wishes that I could sink my nails into his flesh and tear away his face–– because now that we've started, who's to say there aren't others? Like a horrible, dark-eyed Russian nesting doll, one face after the other, just peeling away like layers of wallpaper. Bloody, screaming wallpaper. "Are you finally starting to get the _Joke?_"

I giggle a little wildly. This is too much, too much. "You used to be a volunteer in a demonstration of the dangers of Swiss Army knives?"

"_Nooo_… See, ah, you _see_, Harry, a joke isn't funny unless the victim has a modicum of _dignity_–– otherwise, its just pa–_the_–tic, and who–– who likes playing with _broken_ dolls?" I shrug a little haphazardly. Another metaphor'd speech. "That's why I like _you_ and Bats, but the rest of Gotham–– notice, _heeheehee,_ notice how its almost like saying _Goat-ham?_ –– well, the _rest_ of Goat-ham is comprised of sniveling, baying _animals_."

A burning building is shoved, pixilated, before my good eye and the pit, while I hear the Joker dance out of the room, cackling. The appendage that still supplies vision widens. Two gurneys are being rushed by, and a bubble headed bottle-blonde bimbo is exclaiming and declaring. Suddenly I am filled with a nameless dread. "The White Knight and Profligate Prince of Gotham, both known to have close connections with Harriet Vince, were found at the scene of what appears to be a red herring. Lured by the promise of Rachel Dawes' safe recovery, the two men ventured unaccompanied to the rendezvous point. The body of Rachel Dawes was not recovered from the building–– neither was any form of explosive found on the premises. The blaze you see behind me is the result of an unexpected firefight between Dent and a group of clown-costumed thugs, started by a stray bullet coming into contact with a gas main. Dent himself has sustained horrific burns upon his person, and Bruce Wayne, billionaire and childhood companion of Miss Dawes, sustained several gunshot wounds, some of which have apparently punctured vital organs.

"Dent, who promised to do all he could to _protect_ Gotham, now serves as a testament against our foolish selfishness: we abandoned the one person willing to sacrifice everything for us, just to be shown what little difference our petty efforts make. This fiend, the Joker, is manipulative, but Dent's last-minute negotiations last night may put us back on solid ground. Now, we the _people_, and not the politicians of Gotham, must decide whether to choose Harriet or Batman, barefaced courage or masked cowardice. The answer appears obvious. This is Marissa Blakely reporting for GCN."

I am furious.

"What appears _obvious_," I yell at the screen, tears darting to my eyes "is that he's _playing you!_" I turn to McClown, who stands, impassive, by the door. "You knew, didn't you? You all understood, from the very beginning–– there's no way this is about me. I'm a fucking pawn still and now–– now–– now we really _have_ abandoned the one person who can help us. And _Bruce––_" I moan, burying my face in my hands. McClown snorts bitterly, if that were possible.

"Oh, this is just the beginning. If Batman refuses to show his face–– and I'm sure he's got enough intelligence not to–– more people will die: one atrocity for each hour." He snorts at my horrified expression. "And you–– are you so sure you want to be released?" _Alex… Joker's knee dripping blood…_ McClown shakes his head. "I'm sure pretty boy can take care of himself." I glare at him.

"No, he can't, he's a total _coward_," I growl, now utterly miserable. He waggles his finger.

"Maybe, but he's a _strong_ coward. You want to know why I'm still here? Not joining in on the day of terror? That rich son of a bitch knocked me out at his own fucking party! Yeah! He was heading off to some room, probably to hide like you said, but he knocked _me_ out–– and broke my gun! The bastard took it apart and _snapped it in half!_"

My eyes _can_ get larger. An old dog can learn new tricks. And a revelation does feel like you've been hit by a ton of bricks.

Epiphany.


	18. Down With the Sickness

**Author's Note** (Well-Wishing)**: MERRY CHRISTMAS!**

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_I can see inside you the sickness is rising_

_It seems that all that was good has died_

_Oh, no. The world is a scary place_

_Now that you've woken up the demon in me._

–– "Down With the Sickness," Richard Cheese

Harvey woke up and wished he hadn't.

He woke up staring at the burning whiteness of fluorescent hospital light with one eye and the rustling darkness of gauze with the other. The horrible, meaningless completeness of his right side, and the totality–– the screaming understanding–– of agony that was his left.

The supposed saint attached to the very manifestation of and punishment for his perpetual sin. Treachery. Treachery toward his family as a boy, toward his friends as a politician, toward his city as a man, toward his love–– but what love? which love? and was there–– and was there anyone _left_ to love? She said, the last time he saw her, before their world was blown to pieces, that she would never abandon him. And he, in turn, abandoned her.

Before, he considered wildly, bitterly, there had always been a greater good, a reason to claw his way to the top. Now, it was just him and his demons.

There was a reason they called him Two-Face at Internal Affairs.

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_**Hour 2**_

"I really hope you do not recognize the vast implications of what you have just said." I push myself up a little bit in my chair, slowly blinking at a fuzzy image of McClown. He appears worried. I myself am in total shock–– as if one of the Joker's little bombs went off behind my skull. Oooh, pureed brain!

The shrapnel of my discovery is bursting through my cranium. Of course–– every time–– every time Batman was needed, Bruce Wayne would vanish–– he wasn't running for home, he was running for the Batmobile–– a bat-shape cut into a razorblade necklace––he vanished into thin air just as I was wishing I could sink through the ground–– Good Lord, we are the Stupids, reporting here from Gotham. Forecast: city-wide blindness and obliviousness. I mean, seriously. Who is charged with the task of discovering the truth? I mean, other than the police force? That makes me jolt a little bit more. Does Dent know? Does Gordon know? Somehow I doubt it.

Other than this little, busily calculating bit of grey matter, I am frozen. Apathetic. Drained. A list of synonyms for zombie-fied compiled into a small but solid thesaurus.

I cannot quite remember why I am even here.

I know that I am dying.

I know this from the pain that is infused with my entire being. My soul and body, ruptured at the seams, are pulling apart. But I can hold together–– I can stitch myself, patchwork style, to hold for a little longer.

The television sputters and starts as the clock strikes ten, and its tiny tinny speakers fill with screaming. Again. There should simply be a news alert for Joker events–– a megabyte of his customary cackle or an explosion. And then the rest can be muted, seriously. We all know the reaction by now.

"Moments before he left Gotham City Hall escorting young, recently orphaned Johnny Tambling, Luitenant Gordon received an image of the Virgin Mary cradling the child Jesus. An image of Harriet Vince's face, beaten, bruised, and bleeding, had been awkwardly pasted over the holy mother's serene expression, and the infant's face had the Joker's trademark dark circles and red grin. Scrawled about it were the words, 'Do you want to know how the story ends?'" I groan, curling into myself miserably. Not Johnny. Please not Johnny. The newswoman, Marissa Blakely, is relentless, her forehead furrowed as if she's desperately attempting to cultivate some real emotion. I'm suddenly reminded of the song "Dirty Laundry" by Don Henley. _We got the bubbleheaded bleach-blonde, comes on at 5 / She can tell you about the plane crash with a gleam in her eye/ It's interesting when people die, give us dirty laundry_.

Was I like that?

"Luitenant Gordon, fearing the worst, asked for an armed guard for the boy's protection, but as they stood on the stairs, a small group of their multitude of protectors turned on them, aiming their fire at the young man. Gordon, using his body as a shield, saved the boy from instantaneous death, only for him be dragged away by his captors into the scrambling, screaming crowds to face who knows what sort of horrific end." An blurry, but unmistakable picture appears upon the screen. The dark and sharp crags upon the cheeks of a hollow-eyed, hunched monster.

"McClown, come here!" My voice is weak, but apparently it carries weight, for bag-head strides over and even kneels, peering into my wan visage. "Do you have a death wish?" If canvas could be stunned it would fit the shocked gasping laugh of my guard.

"I'm not a suicidal man, lady." I shake my head slowly and then, apathetically, feel my skull roll up onto my vertebrae.

"I mean," I murmur with great deliberation, "how… do you wish to die?" There is silence. I tilt my head to better see his eyes. "At the receiving end of the Joker's sadistic wrath...? In Arkham, licking the sheet of glass between you and freedom? Or–– or a lauded member of Gotham society, carefully cared for as a survivor and hero?" The silence deepens. I am trembling, and I attempt to force my hands to be steady, sure, as I reach for his. "If you don't help me–– I'll die." I draw a deep breath, and feel myself become sly, squeezing his hands, hard. "If I cannot save Batman, he dies. And without his protection, McClown, there is nothing between you and a tortuous end. Now, which do you _prefer?_"

I didn't know I was so good at making threats.

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Harvey reflected. Or rather, half reflected. The other side, he noted, was hidden in shadow, invisible in the mirror like the visages of demons or vampires in old legends.

Maybe half a face, he thought, was better than none. Maybe it was a sign of a chance at salvation–– after all, wasn't the bargain Batman for Harriet? And for a hero without an identity to begin with, even part of his face would suffice. And he would not have abandoned her, or Rachel.

One love to die for–– the other to never part from.

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"If you're leaving, you're going to have to leave in-cog-something-or-other, so here––" I'm handed a tube of well-used lipstick. "Pretty yourself as best you can."

Mary-Kay, enriching women's lives. Well, even with the makeover, the giant, Byrne-esque suit, and the loosely held semi-automatic, my attempt at manly clownishness will utterly fail if I stay in my wheelchair. It could be a gag–– push a hobo clown down a flight of stairs sort of thing (which I sincerely hope will not happen), though I'll probably accomplish that all by myself.

I slowly wheel myself to the door and nod to McClown. "Well, let's get out there––" I look to him questioningly.

"Max." I nod, and continue in my gruff voice.

"Max! Yes, let's go have some _fun,_ shall we?" I can feel myself shaking with the effort of just staying calm in front of McClown. No weakness, little girl, you _cannot_ show weakness.

I stand, stagger against the door, and, using all my energy to throw it open, nearly collapse on the other side. McClown catches me by the shoulder, but for some reason his hands are gentle. Bile and blood swirls up to my throat and my mouth, to the shock of all those who have stopped to watch. Unfortunately, these are all clowns. I attempt to stand, leaning all my weight on the gun–– and my clenching fist shoots a couple rounds into the floor.

There is utter silence. Fear propels the bloody contents of my battered body out of my mouth, and I hear several clowns yell. "What the fuck––? Is that _Vince?_ What the fuck is going on?" The suspicion in their voice is a bit too much for me, and I sink to the ground, coughing weakly.

Well, _that_ failed miserably.

"Lie," I whisper to McClown hoarsely as I cling to him like a baby koala to its mother, "Tell him I've agreed to be a cohort."

"They're not that fucking stupid!" he hisses back, and reaching down with one arm, gathers me up. The others are screaming at him that he's a fucking idiot, that he is going to die. "She's one of us!" McClown is yelling through this burlap, "She's his–– his––"

"Harlequin!" I cry weakly, throwing my arms around his neck, terrified.

"She ain't anyone's Har-_lee_-quin, you _fucking_ traitor! You can't trust anyone anymore!" One of the men–– a tough in a ragged suit––throws off his mask. A young Italian, eyes red and bloodshot, points his gun at us, trembling. "I _killed_ my friends to become like us, to become part of that nut's 'aggressive expansion.' I'm a fucking _shark._ She isn't like us–– she can't be––! _You_ _can't trust anyone!_"

I see McClown raise his giant machine gun. "Close your eyes," he mutters in my ear, but I cannot look away. My pupils are as dilated as they can be. There is nothing but color.

The world dissolves into blood and pulp.


	19. Hang On Little Tomato

**AUTHOR'S NOTE (**Explanation**):** Yep, this is the entire song. It worked so perfectly! ^.^ Oh, Harry and Bruuuce.

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_The sun has left and forgotten me_

_It's dark, I cannot see_

_Why does this rain pour down?_

_I'm gonna drown_

_In a sea_

_Of deep confusion_

_Somebody told me, I don't know who_

_Whenever you are sad and blue_

_And you're feelin' all alone and left behind_

_Just take a look inside and you'll find_

_You gotta hold on, hold on through the night_

_Hang on, things will be alright_

_Even when it's dark_

_And not a bit of spark_

_Sing-song sunshine from above_

_Spreading rays of sunny love_

_Just hang on, hang on to the vine_

_Stay on; soon you'll be divine_

_If you start to cry, look up to the sky_

_Something's coming up ahead_

_To turn your tears to dew instead_

_And so I hold on to his advice_

_When change is hard and not so nice_

_You listen to your heart the whole night through_

_Your sunny someday will come one day soon to you_

––"Hang On Little Tomato," Pink Martini

Maximillian Jones was angry with himself.

Not because he had helped Vince–– _dammit, Vince!_ –– but because what he knew what was actually happening. Who he was actually helping, and it sank to the pit of his stomach and sat there like a cannonball, leaden. He wanted to turn to the girl at his side, shake her and rattle her and somehow, somehow make all the pieces fit back together. To make her see, if only for a second. Maybe he would, at the tipping point–– people change at the precipice. Unfortunately. And all it took was one bad day…

He slammed on the brakes, and using the truck's momentum to fly through the brick partition, came to a halt in a warehouse. He jumped out and strode forward, knocking down the camera and tripod and grimly raising his gun to take care of the men surrounding Rachel Dawes.

_**Hour 3**_

I wake up. All I can see is white. My reluctant, atheist heart freezes and then jumps for

joy. I've been good enough to go to heaven, seriously? And then I remember the last few days and my ballooning hope is punctured. Slowly, I deflate–– until I realize that the pain is gone.

Am I still dying? I slowly raise myself into a sitting position, pushing at the–– soft, white–– sheets of a strange comfortable bed with weak muscles, until I hear something crinkle. Dazedly, I gaze down at a Gotham Times which has been left–– placed by destiny? _existed for all eternity?_ –– in my lap. Ah! I think, perking up and weakly touching the paper, perhaps I'll learn if I'm dead or not. I'm tangible, that's one thing in my favor, unless ghosts can touch things and that would just be dangerous. Dangerous, vengeful ghosts, m-hm. I stare at the page torpidly with my one working eye, but as I read, I feel my heart shatter within my chest.

LIEUTENANT GORDON KILLED DEFENDING ICON OF HOPE.

The paper is crumpled in my fist, its text-topped mountains stabbing my palms. I cannot feel anything. My mind is a collection of memories––a duster-like mustache, warm arms gently enclosing my sobbing, shaking frame as I seep into his Kevlar, his hysterical laughter and panicked yells–– of my guardian. I choke on my own breath, hiccupping uncontrollably, as my numb skin begins to sense hot fluid pouring from my eyes. I will have to go to the funeral, I realize. I will have to stand in the newly turned dirt and clench my hands until my pain leaves me just as I did for my father. And I will have no right to do so, for I am the one who killed him.

"Oh, Miss Vince!" My imaginary embrace has all of a sudden become very real, very warm, and very British. I gulp, terrified, and push the figure of Alfred away from me, sobbing incoherently.

"Al-Alfred I-I-I'm suh-suh_-sorry_ about, about the v-v-_vase_," I hiccup, clutching his arms for support as he holds them outstretched uncertainly. I can feel my eyes becoming puffy and sniff a little wildly. "Puh-_please_, d-d-don't hold it against me, I'm the s-stupidest person in, in–– in the _world_, and that c-c-_coffee_ _table_ looks really, really _bare._" I can hear him laughing gently, but the laugh quavers with suppressed tears. "I-I don't want to be y-your–– your–– e-e-_enemy_, I––_don't_ Alfred!" I'm enfolded in warmth and murmurs, and the butler who helped me stand when we first met helps me pick myself up again. He quietly wipes my eyes and helps me rest back on the bed, smiling back his all-too-apparent grief.

"There, there Miss Vince. Don't talk nonsense–– we will never be enemies. You are worth a thousand Ming vases my dear."

"I-I'm worth a thousand salaries?" I question anxiously, sniffing, and then flush tomato red. "Ah, I-I mean, not like–– _wow_ that's not awkward at _all_," I moan, clapping my bandaged hand over my face. The butler chuckles and his smile becomes a little heartier. I nod miserably. "Oh yes, everybody, she hasn't changed for the better." I lapse into an unhappy silence, and find Alfred silently holding out his hand for the paper. Hesitantly, I give it to him, murmuring, "Why? Why now, why us, why–– why _me?_ If it hadn't been for me––"

"Lieutenant Gordon would not have escaped this fate–– or at least the danger of it." Alfred looks very stern not. "He was the leader of the MCU, Miss Vince. His life was always at risk. With the Joker's choice of targets and the Lieutenant's own attitudes, there is very little chance that he would have survived this attack upon Gotham." There is a long silence, in which he calmly strokes my hand. I am reminded, in some horrible irony, of the Joker's faux tenderness and shudder internally. "As for the Joker himself," Alfred continues thoughtfully, "I can only think that he is a man without common motivation–– the sort of man that destroys for the sake of destruction. When I was in the Special Forces–––" My mouth drops open, then snaps shut again. Well, at least Bruce–– or was it Batman?–– knew he could trust Alfred. But can I trust Bruce? A chill runs through my body.

_And we all have so many faces, the real self often erases._ The Scarlet Pimpernel risked his love and her family in a gamble to save his secret identity and the heroics it entailed. His true personality disappeared behind a mask, and the face he presented to the world was that of a foppish, womanizing dandy. Such a familiar situation, but with such a nasty catch. For while the Pimpernel never actually was considered criminal, so refined was his freedom fighting, the Batman was not–– _"not entirely irreprehensible."_

Just like me.

Suddenly, I cannot stand Alfred's story about the jewel-discarding bandit. "Alfred," I whine, pouting, "this is a boring story. Tell me the one about Cinderella." He looks a little shocked and I laugh, although it feels bitter. "I'm just teasing you. It's just that I understand––that people are cruel. Mindlessly cruel." Bad things, I think with a jolt–– _"This will protect you against all __**bad things**__....Because we, know, don't we, Harry–– true ugliness is found __**within**__."_ I shake my head, brain vomiting memories of pain and blood and insidious words. A hand yanks my head back, a mouth forces itself upon my own, tongue sliding over mine. Why can't I throw him–– the boot slams into my stomach, and my memory spits blood–– from my mind?

"_You think you're __**different**__ from me. But you'll see–– you'll __**realize**__ what you really are."_

I can see his obsidian eyes boring like picks into my own.

"_Everything–– __**changes**__ under pressure."_

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Captain. Max had called her Captain, to her face. It was strange, but now it seemed to make sense.

Before, she had been leading a crew–– a mutinous crew of Gotham civilians, but a crew nonetheless. And when pirates attacked, she ended up being marooned, left with nothing but a vendetta, a quest to save and reunite her loyal shipmates.

Her eye patch helped.

Maximillian had always been a fool for swashbuckling, he thought grimly, looking down at his handcuffed wrists as he sat in the dismal hospital waiting room. He had his own guard, though their presence was clearly not the result of any concern for his health. He, he considered with growing smugness, could obviously take care of himself. He had decided for himself to abandon the immorality of piracy, he had rescued the bonny lass Dawes (he grinned, knowing the assistant DA would probably hate that), and he had helped the Captain to safety. So yes, he could take of himself.

But could he take care of the Captain?

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"Hospital," I mutter to Alfred as a gang of doctors and nurses come rushing in. The poor man looks a little startled. I feel sorry for him–– he had to call the entire staff just to stop me from convulsing to death from the inundation of bad memories. Where are you, where are you Harriet. Location, location, location.

"Pardon, Miss Vince?"

"Hospital," I restate, attempting to clear my mind and not scare the unfortunate butler, "a smell of Gotham that is, unfortunately, unavoidable, but which will never become a perfume. I mean, can you imagine? 'Disinfectant: The Smell of Life in Gotham.'" Alfred chortles, and then gives a long sigh of relief. I haven't scared him too much, and lived to make a joke in the process! Pretty good for me, I think, relieved, then hear a familiar voice at my door.

"That and: 'Fear Toxin. Yes, people _will_ look at you differently!'" I slowly turn to face the entrance and finally see, with my good eye, the man who was always in my blind side. Bruce–––Batman.

"You know what would be another good Gotham perfume?" I ask, grinning a little maniacally. "'Eu de Guano: Justice in Gotham.'" Bruce gives a wary laugh, and my grin widens. "Because, Bruce, the courts here are total bat-shit!" I giggle a little hysterically, not taking my eye (ahaha) off my friend, then subside to growl, "And, of course, because of _Batman_."

There is a long silence.

And then I begin to giggle wildly at the idea of a giant bat in my doorway.

"He––he's a fuh-flying _rat!_" I wheeze, beating my own arms in the air like wings and pointing mindlessly at my friend. "_Wheeee!_" Bruce's face collapses before my eye and I arch back cackling and snorting, arms wind-milling before they are caught by terrified nurses.

"She's convulsing again!" one of them screeches and I (not very gently) shove their face away from my ear, still hiccupping with laughter. "Don't worry Mr. Wayne," I hear one of them murmur anxiously, "she's still feeling the after-effects of the morphine–– I'm sure she'll be normal very soon."

"As soon as I know what that means!" I giggle, squeezing my eye closed as I feel my body being pressed down into the soft white sheets again. I don't want the bleached but fluffy cotton, I want them to be covered in vomit, urine, and blood, like I've been for the last–– oh, how long _was_ it? It's just, I guess, more normal?

"Normal to be abnormal, that's _meeeeee_," I sing, twisting my head up to look at Bruce, who has come very close to the bed, although he is restrained by a couple of nurses. "Tell them, Bruce, tell them how weird I am. I'm a _plat-y-pus._" I bounce into a seated position again, shaking off my restrainers. I look Bruce in the eye (haha!) as I continue to do some sort of strange interpretive dance, scooching closer and closer to him, laughing. "Weirdness is my modus operandi! I'm freaky inside and out! Now you're just getting the full intensity–– now you see how I really am! And why," I whisper, an inch away from his beautiful, familiar face, "should I hide who I truly am?" I stare into his gorgeous dark blue irises for two seconds and then fly backward, screaming and cackling, jerked onto the mattress by the inescapable hands of the nursing profession.

"Please!" Bruce cries, holding out a hand to stop them, his arm crossing over my line of vision. "Don't be cruel! She's suffered enough already!" Now I hear it, and the fault of emotion in his voice makes me close my eye. The broken cry in his voice. The sound of suppressed tears. "Just––just let her go!" The doctors are pulled away from me, pushed from the room. I feel myself embraced again, more tightly and desperately than before.

The warmth and movement of muscle beneath clean, expensive clothing soothes me. Perhaps Bruce and Batman could actually be the same person, and not just inhabit the same body. His breathing is harsh. His arms manage to wrap around my frame and his hands grasp my shoulders. Now that I can finally feel, I feel the strange calluses upon his palm and fingers–– calluses that do not belong on an idle playboy. But the tears that fall in the crook of my neck do not fit the emotionless masked crusader. Perhaps–– perhaps––neither mask defines the person.

The person whom_ I_ know.

The person whom I love.

I realize that I have gone completely limp in his hold, with tears dripping steadily from my eyes onto his shoulder, and sniff heartily. "I'm bipolar today." We both give rather watery chuckles, but instead of drawing apart, I hold him closer. I'm afraid that he'll disappear into a persona, an abstract, dragging my remaining sanity down with him. I pull his ear to my mouth, trembling as I whisper, "I'm finally free, Bruce. Out of control. Crazy. _Changed._ You should put me in Arkham, Bruce_._ Before anything goes wrong."

"No, no, Harry, I can't do that–– you don't belong there. Not everyone who experiences great trauma becomes a monster, Harriet!" He takes a deep breath and holds me away from him, searching my eyes. "You are stronger than that, Harry. You haven't a fragile mind. You are _not like him._" I nod, slowly.

"Well, yes, we're very different, but it doesn't mean we're not both dangerous. He's a self-made monster; I'm a child of madness. He's Frankenstein –– I'm his monster. He is fire––" I clasp Bruce's hand tighter in mine "––and I am boiling water."

"But water is only _affected_ by fire," Bruce continues insistently. "It can take on its qualities, but–– but it is its opposite. It can easily survive an attack of fire–– and is definitely incapable of becoming it." He takes my chin in his hand, lifting my head up toward him.

"Water," he states, in a low tone, "can easily quench a fire."

"It is reborn in fog and rain," I murmur, mind spinning. My consciousness feels as if it is stepping out of mist into a cool quiet revelation. "It feeds the earth and helps it heal–– to grow again." I can feel my tears drying on my cheeks and begin to smile, hesitantly. "Water can never be fire. Flames only make water–– _disappear_ for a while. Boil out of control. But it returns."

I now understand that although his eyes are the color of the ocean, Bruce's soul is full of caverns, stone, and shadow. He was made in extreme heat and changed by the pressures of the land, and can only change through the slow, steady drip of underground water–– his own rebirth–– or the power of fire. He is a rock–– and Batman is the gargoyle carved from it's mass to watch over Gotham.

I realize that we are very close together. "That doesn't mean it wasn't crazy before the fire arrived, though!" I say, straightening up and blushing, a smile of truly idiotic happiness stretching my mouth. Seeing their expressions, I pull an extremely dramatic face. "Water is mysterious–– _deadly_–– and known for its insanity. It is known for its cruelty and _cold fury_. And what's worse, it's _always_ been that way." The others look startled, and I chuckle. "You brought it upon yourselves, you two: if nothing can truly change me, then I must have always been this way!" Bruce groans, clapping a hand to his head. I laugh, easily, and lean back. "So you just be careful when you're on water, you hear? It's a trickster, and can be rough to ride." Bruce gives me a sly look and a bark of laughter. I flush, realizing what I just said. "Ah, _dammit!_ Again, that's–– that's _not_ what I meant to imply." Bruce laughs even louder, pauses, and then suddenly leans toward me.

I find his lips upon mine.

I am sinking to the bottom of the ocean, riding a tidal wave of shock and ecstasy, flying like a droplet to the very sky.

I am flying to skim the beauty of the firmament and flying to crash downward, flying to cascade over the edge of rapids into dark and turbulent underground rivers, where the sound of bubbling foam hisses and echoes through caves and secret hollows, filling the darkest corners of life with joy. It is this unbridled joy and shock that sends the blood of my body surging and crashing against the thin barrier of my skin, and I feel my very being boiling and trembling with emotion.

The silence is suddenly broken by a soft thud by the doorway. Bruce and I break apart to look at the doorway. Harvey––or at least half of him–– stands there, looking just as shocked as we are. He's just dropped his bouquet of flowers.

"I've got another Gotham perfume," I mutter. "It's 'Oh, _Shit_–– For When You Want to Make a Stench.'"

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Half a city away, a mischievous flame rages into a towering inferno.

Woe to those who gave it fuel.


	20. Stacked Crooked

**Author's Note:** People. People I am so sorry. I am a HORRIBLE PERSON to have done this to you–– leaving you with a cliffhangers since January. Thankfully, some of you took the trouble to remind me of how rude I was being, and I apologize here AGAIN. Do forgive me, for this is yet another cliffhanger, but the work will soon be completed.

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_You clicked and tossed  
Your crypted crossword locks  
You then abandoned talks  
And now it's off to say  
While we would weep  
In smoke and mirrored states  
Stacked crooked all along  
But now I'm on my way _

–– "Stacked Crooked," New Pornographers

Jonathon Tambling is terrified.

He can't look straight ahead–– the light is blinding, painful, and he knows that every time he looks up, he'll be staring the Joker straight in the eyes. And he is terrified of those eyes. He cannot crane his neck around to avoid the light, but when he looks down, he's staring at a dark stain. He is terrified of the stain, and the dark corners that cloak monsters more horrible than any ever imagined in a closet.

This room terrifies him––he saw it on the MCU television set. A tiny, fuzzy image of shadow and blood.

It's the room where Harriet was kept.

_**Hour 4**_

There is a very embarrassing unnecessary silence. I can see Harvey's half-a-stunned-face and it's doubly unsettling, as everyone is staring at everyone else, and looking like they're _going_ to start talking, but _aren't_. This silence––it's the kind of silence that hangs around awkwardly, like that guy at the party who was invited by his friend, but whom no one actually wants to talk to.

Y'know? That kind of silence.

"_Aaaaaarrraawwwwwrrrggaaaaaaaa!_" I scream at the top of my lungs, throwing my arms in the air. Bruce, wild-eyed and swearing, falls off the hospital cot, and poor Harvey nearly faints.

"The _fuck?_" the poor DA yells. I smile, satisfied.

"Well, that broke the ice, didn't it?" Alfred gives a little gasp of laughter and puts his hand over his face. Behind Bruce cursing, I can him wheezing quietly into his palm.

"Next time," Bruce says, chuckling, "just tell the joke about how much a polar bear weighs. Your icebreaker sounds like an emergency broadcast." I shake my head, giggling.

"Nooo, an emergency broadcast sounds like this––" I say, drawing a deep breath, only to find a hand over my mouth. I look up and find my reflection in the irises of his eyes. I attempt to return the warmth of his smile, but can only grin into his callused hand. "Mfffmmpph!" I try to yell, and feel myself become pink-eared as he pats my head.

"There, there, itty-bitty journalist. How about you just let your teensy-weensy self rest while I give you this condescending pat on the head?"

Instantly, my grin turns to a glare and I pull his hand away, spitting, "There, there, itty-bitty billionaire–– how about you just let your teensy-weensy brain rest while I give you this condescending punch in the stomach?" He chortles again and shakes his head.

"Like you'd be able to! You're _tiny,_ Miss Vince." I straighten up, attempting to appear dignified.

"Perhaps! Maybe I _am_ small, but beneath this wimpy exterior is an alter ego of steel-plated endurance and overwhelming strength! Of agility and–– impressive stature!" Flexing my arms, I try not to wince at the apparent lack of musculature. "You think Batman is a big deal? He's tiny in comparison to––" I draw an enormous breath and practically shout "––CAPTAIN DRAGON!"

You can hear drips from the faucet down the hall.

"No." Bruce says. "Just…no." I pout. "If you call yourself that, it'll just create horrible awkward silences and looks of disappointment when you show up."

"Not my fault if they don't remember that dragons are mythological." Silence descends upon us again as I smile up at Bruce. It is as if the danger that so recently invaded our lives has evaporated like a thick fog before daybreak. In the quiet between us, I can feel a deep and heart-felt affection grow, a susurrus in my mind that whispers of warm and beautiful futures. As he clasps my hand in his, however, I see, in the corner of my working eye, Harvey slowly reaching down for his flowers and turning to leave. Regret and growing anxiety sickening my stomach, I turn back towards the door and quietly ask him to stop. "Harvey–– I'm sorry––"

"It's alright." I can hear his voice crack, and want to hold his burned hand in mine. "It was not my right to hope for anything–– and now that you can see what I really am––"

"Harvey, stop." My voice is measured, but I feel my heart is breaking. Slowly, he turns to look at me, and I smile as I realize that my dead eye faces the burnt half of his face. Slowly, I place my hand over my blind eyeball, allowing my smile to widen somewhat tremulously. "I really cannot see a difference, Mr. Dent." He twists away from me, but I force myself to hope that he will know I am being sincere. "These scars aren't who you _are––_ they're just shadows of wounds, gained in combat against a true monster." I twist around to look up at Bruce. "As for my own demons–– if that giggly bastard does _anything_ to Johnny, I swear to God I won't be able to contain my maternal instincts." Letting go of Bruce's hand, I clench my own, my setting my teeth in a rather vampiristic grin. "I'm seriously considering sticks pins into his eyes and crucifying him upside down." The reactions range from unsettled to seriously disturbed. "What? Just planning ahead!" Harvey laughs a little, but I see Bruce and Alfred exchange worried looks.

"Ah, Harry, I don't think maternal instincts are supposed to get you arrested," Bruce remarks anxiously. I giggle, squeezing his hand.

"Aren't they?"

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Johnny can feel his mouth being pulled sideways by the force of the brutally applied lipstick and twists his face up and away from the rough fingers, closing his eyes.

Ants, there are thousands of ants in a glass "home." His eyes are open, wide, trying to capture every movement of their miniscule figures as they tunnel their way through the wood-shavings. The most efficient creatures on Earth, his cousin murmurs into his ear. They have the largest brains in the insect kingdom, can lift objects twenty times their weight, and if human beings could move at their speed, we'd be running as fast as racehorses. They're miracle bugs, Johnny, superheroes.

Johnny remembers wanting to be an ant at that moment, shouting gleefully that he wishes to become a miracle bug. An ant-man! But Johnny, his cousin says, they don't think for themselves. They don't have any freedom.

He didn't care then. He wanted antennae and super-speed, six terrifically strong arms and razor-sharp pinchers. He wanted to be the most efficient creature on Earth–– wanted Gotham, with its stinky, littered streets and crazy old men whom you could not speak to or smile at, to become the tunnels in the wood-shavings. He wants this to be true now, more than ever, with his heroes and with Batman. But he wants them to be able to decide, to have the freedom to run. The Lieutenant didn't have that choice–– Harriet, Harriet has to.

Jonathon cries.

_**Hour 12**_

I drank way too much mango iced tea and watched way too many cartoons, and both my abdomen and my brain feel like they're about to explode. Groaning, I try to carefully roll onto my side without ripping my stitches. To sleep or not to sleep. That is the question, isn't it? I decide against it and force the image of Admiral Ackbar to appear in my head yelling "IT'S A TRAP!" 'Cause by now, I know the port to the "tranquil seas of slumber" is actually a gateway to Hell, which has dressed up as a circus for my benefit. Fucking _clowns._

It's the middle of the night, but I can't sleep–– somewhere in the city, Joker has Johnny. He hasn't done anything to the boy yet, but his men have been causing havoc. With Harvey in the hospital and Gordon in the ground, Gotham needs Batman. Well, actually, it's more of the opinion that it needs Batman to turn himself in, but Dent has taken care of both by removing us to a "safe house" or a "Defcon One"–– in less dignified tones, a boarded-up and apparently disused wing of Gotham Hospital. I look at Bruce, who has fallen asleep in his wheelchair facing me. We were laughing and talking until about half an hour ago, when he started snoring. Is this guy really the Dark Knight? The _nocturnal_ caped crusader? I'm loath to wake him up, but this lapse is going to be terrible for his sleeping patterns. And I really can't get to the bathroom without help. Grimacing at that undignified thought, I reach out to nudge his arm.

I push him gently, but instead of waking him up, the force just moves the wheelchair farther away. I frown. Shuffling my torso out a little ways, I try to shake his knee, but this movement simply shifts him, and ends up widening the gap between bed and chair. "Ffffff––!" I hiss, and swing my other arm around, now practically leaning all the way off the bed to touch his shin. "Bruce! _Bruce!_" I use my last bit of strength to rap, hard, on his shinbone, and fall off the bed with a loud _thud._ My stitches groan.

He starts awake, and the face and voice I love is darkened with a barely-suppressed, sinister something. A shadow of the bat. "Harriet! Are you alright?"

From my location facedown somewhere near or under the bed, I manage to choke out, "No. Unless it's by allergens."

Stifling a soft laugh, he reaches down and literally lifts me up by the waist, setting me back down, sitting, on the edge of the bed. I glare at his barely-contained amusement. Sometimes, being the one thing that can make the Bat-man laugh is a real pain. "Something funny?" He shakes his head, attempting to untwist his mouth into a properly serious line. "I'm actually very strong you know." He nods vigorously. "I could take you out with one blow–– with my dragon powers." He simply continues to nod, looking akin to a bobble-head doll. "Not to mention that I'm absolutely bonkers, and capable of flying off the handle at any moment." He finds that less amusing, and glares at me in turn. Bruce doesn't like it when I call myself crazy, no matter how true it might be–– and it's becoming more true with every day.

"Is that why you ended up on the floor?" I blush a deep crimson, and shake my head. "Because I can't really think of any other reason for you to be lying facedown at my feet after whacking my legs." My blush deepens.

"It's just that–– you're Batman! You're not supposed to sleep. At night. You should be staying up all night with me–– okay, that didn't sound quite right–– ah. And! Aaaahm I need some help…I had way too much mango iced––" Bruce's mouth is twisting around again, and I quickly change the subject. "They should really sweep, you know that? That floor is covered in very unsanitary dust. I bet it's a violation of the Hippocratic Oath!"

My face is burning, but it seems to spontaneously combust when he leans over and plants a soft kiss upon my lips. "Want some help?" he murmurs, grinning, and I smile dazedly, nodding. So _this_ is love. It's very cuddly, I decide, as I climb into Bruce's lap and nuzzle into his chest. He begins to push us forward, using martially-trained-to-perfection muscles to move us at break-neck speed down the long hall, making my smile widen and my eyes water in the wind.

"Is this what it's like to fly?" He considers it, twisting the left wheel sharply to bring us directly in front of the restrooms.

"Not exactly–– there's a lot more room between you and the ground."

"Ohhhh you think you're soooo _clever. _'_Oh, _I'm Mr. Bruce Wayne the Sleepless _Avengerrrrrrrr_ and I'm a superhero genius man blahdiblahdiblah––'" Bruce opens the door and shoves me into the bathroom. It's times like these make the nightmares seem far way, even when they're right outside my door.

Every night, I wake up screaming my head off and thrashing about. They've had to stitch me up so many times now––I once had to be embroidered three times in one hour, when they were being very insistent upon my need to take naps. They aren't so insistent anymore; I've begun to resemble a patchwork doll. The only thing that stops me from ripping myself to shreds every waking moment is Bruce–– usually in a very forceful way: he holds my arms away from my body until I calm, or until a doctor can arrive from the actual hospital. His shadow overshadows the shadows in my mind, which slink around in the shadowy corners of my consciousness–– the shadow of a bat sending shadows scattering.

I guess we're made for each other.

As we wheel back, I hold closer to Bruce's torso, suddenly seized with an irrational terror of losing him. It's penetrating, chilling; it feels like an omen, and I'm petrified by this. There's a sharp intake of breath above me–– Bruce's wounds aren't fully healed, and the fierceness of his awakening has returned to his face. Nothing has happened, yet his entire body is aching, straining for a fight beneath my hands. I crane my head to look up at him and see nothing but a silhouette, tensed with feverish idealism, and my stomach becomes a lead weight. Perhaps my fear is not as irrational as I'd like to believe. The more I see of the Batman in Bruce, the less of Bruce I seem to know. Bruce loves me––perhaps–– but in the corner of my eye, I can see the Batman glaring out at me, calculating his losses against his duty. And more than that–– I see a rage and an uncertainty, even a hatred. In those moments, I understand why he hates it when I call myself mad. Madmen cause chaos––there's no room for chaos in Batman's cosmos.

"Are you okay, Harry?" he growls softly, and I start out of my reverie.

"Yeah–– just––" I pause. "Will you not turn on GCN tonight? The Joker's message won't change, Bruce." I bite my lip, watching his brooding countenance closely. "I can't stand to hear his voice." Bruce nods slowly, and begins to wheel us back, less swiftly than before. There's a long silence, broken only by the squeak of rubber on linoleum, until I finally think it's safe to speak again. "Why are we being kept here? I'd feel safer knowing that we were in the hospital–– in unmarked rooms, the basement even–– rather than being stranded out here. Hospital staff can't visit during the day, in case someone notices them. We can't call anyone, in case someone traces us–– Harvey didn't even tell the MCU––!"

"We can't trust the MCU, Harry."

"Gordon trusted the MCU! I trust his judgment." He stops the chair and looks down at me, a mix of pity and anger suffusing his naturally Byronic features.

"Yes, Gordon trusted them. And now Gordon's dead."

The silence returns, deeper and more sinister now. Bruce speaks again, his quiet growls creating a susurrus of smaller echoes. "Harvey and MCU have an enmity that's gone back a ways–– but of course you know that. I think your reporting career began with the shooting and killing of Karl Breticup––"

"At the pie café, right," I interrupt, unnerved by how much he knows about me. Has he been reading up on me? The chill that penetrated me earlier has now sunk into my bones. "He was tracking corrupt cops in the GPD, with the great support of the rest of the city. Is that where he got that nickname?" Bruce nods, and we wheel on. Two-Face. It was behind-doors conversation, dropped slyly behind Harvey's back, but the police clearly saw his virtue as a thin façade for his more psychotic tendencies. I suddenly understand what he said about my being able to see what he really was. I _cannot_ believe I didn't realize––Maybe, I suddenly think, horror breaking over my mind in waves, we left the hospital not simply as a protection against the Joker, but to keep the world protected against Two-Face.

After all, Rachel's not doing so well.

When we get back to the room, Bruce takes a few minutes to tuck me back in, joking about my tiny-ness to diffuse the tenseness, comparing me to a little child, and then glaring at me when I whisper "Pedophiiiiiliaaaa…."

"Right, just for that _slanderous_ remark," he declares, "I am revoking my promise to leave the news off." My eyes go very, very wide, but he simply smiles. "I'll keep the volume low; I need to know what Batman should do before I decide what Bruce can do."

"What about me?" I ask plaintively. He waves over his shoulder.

"Just put your head under a pillow or something." I sigh, picking one up.

"I meant," I whisper, as he turns on the television, "did you know what Batman needed to do before Bruce chose to kiss me?" But I'm safe, apparently–– there's nothing on the news but the usual crisis: shootings, bombings, and Joker threats. I'm starting to relax, I realize, and hope fervently that it will help my body to recover.

And then they go on to the lesser news, and my heart stops.

"In other news, a small mental facility on the outskirts of Metropolis caught fire, blowing up part of the ward. The fire appears to have begun in the kitchen, as the remains of a large, half-cooked breakfast have been found amongst the rubble. The gas from the stove burners, the MPD believes, reacted with heat waves given off by the other appliances and created the small explosion which obliterated a section of the T through Z wards. Bodies have yet to be identified, but relations of the deceased will be notified as soon as the investigation has been completed––"

He found Alex.


End file.
